The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  He took her hand and squeezed it. They rose together, then slowly made their way back through the woods to their car, and he drove them home.

  Later that evening the phone rang, and Lon answered on the second ring. She placed a hand over the mouthpiece and held it out.

  “It’s your friend, Joe.”

  Steven gave her a steady look and took the handset. She started to leave, but he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, then dropped his arm to her waist to hold her there with him.

  “Good evening, sir.” He listened for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, of course, good evening, Joe.”

  He was silent for several minutes and listened while Simpson spoke. Then Steven responded, “No, I don’t really need to speak to my wife; we’ve already talked about it.” Lon ran her index finger gently along the tunnel of his spine in the lower portion of his back. Steven looked down directly into her eyes.

  “If you are prepared to move ahead with this, then so am I—so are we.”

  Thursday, September 5,

  Khalabad, Iran

  The sun hung just above the rugged outline of the Kuh-e Hazaran range. The jagged horizon separated the desert of the broad central Iranian plain from the royal blue northwest sky. A small enclave of stone huts and sod stables clung to a shallow valley plateau bounded by rolling, barren hills. The little village was not unlike dozens of others in this part of central Iran, eking out a meager subsistence from farming and goatherding. Most of the residents in this village were either very old, very young, or men for whom this was only a temporary residence. There were few amenities, although some of the dwellings had recently obtained portable generators. The villagers were a mixture of mountain tribes—Central Asian nomads who had intermarried for generations so that ethnic differences were no longer distinguishable. But clan divisions were everything. This particular village was a little more prosperous than most because the few men who were there were accomplished smugglers. It was also a village at peace, because they were under the control of a village chief who was a strict fundamentalist. They were eight hundred miles and close to a century in time from Tehran. Punishments as prescribed by the Koran were interpreted literally. In recent memory, there had been only one incident of thievery in the village, which resulted in the amputation of a hand. There was one accusation of adultery last year, but the evidence was inconclusive. Otherwise, the woman would have been stoned to death.

  The village of Khalabad was served by a single gravel road and a network of footpaths that led into the mountains that bordered the central plateau and finally to the Dasht Lut wilderness and the Afghan border. The regional town of Kerman lay sixty-five miles to the north, some three hours by jeep on unimproved roads. Thanks to the miracle of cellular technology and encryption, there was secure telephone contact with the outside world. Still, there was no way one could drive to Khalabad without first traveling through Kerman and several other villages along the way. This was a distinct advantage for some of the residents of Khalabad.

  Life here differed little from that in other mountain villages across central Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan; the men sat in small groups, smoking and drinking coffee, while heavily veiled women worked. Morning and evening prayers were strictly observed. Progressive changes brought about in other parts of Iran had yet to make their way to this village. But in Khalabad there was a small, freshly built stone compound at the edge of the main cluster of dwellings, and the occupants moved about at strange times. Sometimes they came out in twos and threes, usually midmorning but sometimes not until mid-or even late afternoon. At night or during the infrequent cloudy days, they seemed to move about freely. Most in the village thought this odd, but they asked no questions, for the strangers who occasionally came to Khalabad were men of power and influence. They were also under the protection of a regional sect that controlled who could and could not come to this village. The caretakers of the new compound never left the village, but the others came and went, often leaving for months at a time. Usually they traveled by jeep, but not always. These outsiders treated everyone in Khalabad with courtesy and respect, but the villagers treated the newcomers with some deference, for it was evident that they were hard and dangerous men. And the village of Khalabad produced some of the toughest mountain fighters in the world. When the Soviets invaded Afghanistan and jihad was declared, many of them left to fight the invaders. Not all of them came back, at least not immediately, but most did eventually return. More than a few were killed when the American-backed Northern Alliance swept in from the Uzbek border during the second Afghan invasion.

  A short man in traditional robes stepped to the door of the compound and peered out. He turned back to one of those who waited at a discreet distance.

  “Is it safe to go out?” he asked one of the others.

  “Yes,” one of them replied as he consulted a notebook. “There is nothing above us for a while, and we will be safe until nightfall.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. I would like to go for a short walk. Ask Khalib if he would like to accompany me.”

  “I will tell him, Abu Dokhan.”

  There was an immediate bustle of activity. The robed man waited patiently by the door as four men armed with Kalashnikov rifles filed past him. They lowered their heads briefly in deference as they passed him and made their way outside. Moments later, another man stepped to the door—the same man who had met Moshe Abramin that first day at the café in Lahore. He no longer wore the garb of a cleric but the clothes of an al Qaeda mountain fighter. His coarse, thick beard and hairline circled a lean face, leathered by years of altitude and harsh weather. He was a severe man by any measure, but it was his pale blue, semi-opaque eyes that made him appear dangerous.

  “You wished to see me, Dokhan?” His Arabic was quite good, though it was not his native language. He deferred to the man who waited by the door, but not with the subservience shown by the others. He had fought the Russians and the Americans, and was a man who would bow to no one.

  “Yes, Khalib. Will you take a walk with me?” The smaller man’s speech carried a Lebanese accent, one from the streets of Beirut.

  “Of course, Dokhan.”

  Abu Dokhan was only one of Imad Mugniyah’s noms de guerre. In Arabic it literally meant “father of smoke,” for he was known as one who could disappear into thin air, like a puff of smoke. It was also a sign of respect, and one that Imad Mugniyah allowed, as it served his purpose. In other areas he was called by other names, which he thought might help to confuse the Western intelligence services. That it was a title of respect meant little to him personally, as Mugniyah was a man without ego or presumption. This had earned him another name–the Anti–bin Laden. Like bin Laden, Mugniyah was a man with an agenda, and while his alliance with al Qaeda was a marriage of convenience, he did not really care for the tall, outspoken Saudi. Yet he bore bin Laden no grudge. In fact, he rather missed him. While bin Laden was on the scene, it had taken a great deal of pressure off Mugniyah. But the sheik had brought the might of the West down on himself and his al Qaeda followers, and now that he was no longer in evidence, there were that many more hounds chasing Mugniyah and his Hezbollah organization.

  Imad Mugniyah was born on the streets of Lebanon and educated in French parochial schools. He was in secondary school when Beirut ceased to be the Paris of the Middle East and dissolved into civil war. When the Druze militia killed his parents and younger sister, he became a street fighter and joined the ranks of the Hezbollah, the Party of God. Mugniyah killed his first Christian when he was fifteen. It wasn’t until two years later that he killed his first Jew. The Hezbollah quickly learned what the French nuns had known for some time; Mugniyah was intelligent and very resourceful. By the age of twenty-five he had risen through the ranks to head the Hezbollah security apparatus. Mugniyah personally planned and supervised the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983, the hijacking of TWA Flight 847, the bombings of the Israeli embassy and a Jewish community center in Ar
gentina, and a long string of kidnaps and killings. He was part of the Lebanese Shiite power structure, and while he observed the teaching of the Koran, he did this more for his followers than for his faith. He neither drank nor smoked, nor did he use or abuse women. When it was convenient, he observed morning and evening prayer, more to meditate than to pray; it cleared his head and soothed his spirit, allowing him to focus on his true calling. Imad Mugniyah, aka Abu Dokhan, was simply the most accomplished terrorist on the planet.

  Long ago Mugniyah recognized that Iran, after the fall of the Shah, was perhaps the safest and most stable regime in the Middle East if you were a terrorist. He quickly established both funding and intelligence links with the government in Tehran. Mugniyah still moved throughout the region, but since 9/11, Lebanon and Syria had become increasingly dangerous for him. There was a price on his head: 25 million American dollars. That could buy a great deal of information in the backstreets and bazaars of Beirut and Damascus, or even Islamabad. He had recently found himself only a step ahead of the Mossad or the CIA. Even the British operatives from MI5 had had a go at him. And money was now a problem; several of his Hezbollah-sourced accounts had been diverted, and fewer international banks would accept their wire transfers. The Iranians still provided him with useful information and refuge, but they were now not so forthcoming with their funds. Even the Saudis were becoming unreliable in this regard. No matter, Mugniyah told himself. A new source of funding had just made itself available. He himself had few material needs, and while he did not like to think of himself as a terrorist for hire, it did not hurt to be paid to do God’s work. But if he were to continue his fight against the Jews, then they must have money. It was this need for money that had brought him here.

  The two men stepped from the door and into the dying sunshine. It was dry and cool, with a light wind that spawned an occasional dust devil along the hard-packed dirt road. Mugniyah was shorter than his companion, and physically unimposing by comparison. His deep brown beard was only now showing some streaks of gray at the temple, and his brown eyes were deceptively soft. He lifted a shawl from his shoulders and draped it across his head as if to shield his features from those close by. Abu Dokhan had a fetish for anonymity, and it had served him well in his chosen profession. He and Khalib began to walk slowly away from the village along a well-trodden goat path. Mostly, the way was wide enough for both of them to pass, but when it wasn’t, Khalib allowed Mugniyah to precede him. Forty meters to the front and rear, two armed men kept their pace and distance, searching the barren landscape for something out of place. These were Khalib’s men, and they knew how to look for trouble. The other two armed men kept watch on either flank, also at a distance. At a bend in the path, Mugniyah paused to admire the view, then turned to his companion.

  “Magnificent, is it not? Too bad that we are only free to enjoy this beauty during certain hours of the day.”

  Khalib looked skyward. “True, Dokhan, but the American spy satellites and reconnaissance drones do serve to remind us of the constant presence of our enemies, even in this remote place where we are given sanctuary.” Both men were aware that the Americans maintained satellite coverage of most of Iran. They had to assume that Khalabad was one of them. Both also knew that though they were five hundred miles from the shores of the Arabian Sea, they were still in range of refueled American special operations helicopters.

  They were quiet for some time before Mugniyah continued.

  “We are losing ground, Khalib. My Hezbollah faction in Lebanon and your al Qaeda forces in Afghanistan. But I commend you on your careful planning. Most of your networks inside Pakistan are still intact. And your vision for a stay-behind presence anticipated the fall of the Taliban. Yet many rulers of nations that should be supporting our struggle are bowing to Western pressure. They fear the Americans and their technology. Leaders of our movement are in exile, and some of our most committed fighters are dead or in prison.” He tugged at his beard. “Too many of our traditional allies see the power of the Americans as too formidable. Or they are more interested in settling old grudges than uniting with us against the Israelis—or the moderate Arabs. I was not in favor of bin Laden’s attack on America; I would have been content to let them continue in decadence and ignorance. But that cannot be undone.” Mugniyah was making an effort to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Khalib had been one of bin Laden’s most trusted lieutenants. “Osama’s great victory brought them here in force, and we must now deal with them. We are now in need of a great victory to force the Americans to leave. No matter what the consequences, we must break this hold the Americans have on us. If they are allowed to build this pipeline, then they will be able to dominate the flow of oil and the geography of the entire region. And you, Khalib, will never be able to go home again.”

  Khalib knew all this, but still he listened carefully. Mugniyah was a man to be treated with much respect. He had gone to Lahore at great personal risk to meet with this Pakistani nuclear scientist. Khalib, because of his secret al Qaeda organization in Pakistan, had arranged the meeting. Now he, Khalib, had crossed Pakistan at little personal risk but at great inconvenience to meet with Mugniyah in Iran. Movement in Pakistan, especially in the cities, was dangerous because of the Pakistani secret police. It was dangerous in the remote areas, even here in Iran, because of American technology. But this little village was safe as any he had known in Pakistan or Afghanistan during the last few years.

  Somehow, Mugniyah had known of this wide-eyed Pakistani scientist, and of his willingness to do what was asked of him. How did Dokhan know this? What else does he know? Khalib knew that this Lebanese had good contacts in Iran and throughout the Middle East, and his reputation for cunning and courage were legendary. Khalib had guessed that the meeting in Lahore had something to do with the Trans-Afghan Pipeline the Americans were planning to build. After the meeting, he knew that it had to do with this scientist’s access to nuclear materials and the vaults where the Pakistanis stored their nuclear weapons. Yet, he remained skeptical—very skeptical. It all seemed too improbable. One thing he did know; if and when it came to the operational planning, his knowledge of Afghanistan would be invaluable. When it came to the execution phase, his participation would be essential.

  “Khalib, my al Qaeda friend,” Mugniyah said quietly, “we must make this plan work. Osama brought the Americans here to our doorstep. Now we must act boldly, or they will never leave. What did you think of our wide-eyed young scientist?”

  “You mean Abramin?”

  “Yes, do you think we can trust him?”

  Khalib did not reply immediately. He ran his pale eyes slowly along the ridge of these strange mountains. They were barely foothills when compared to his beloved Hindu Kush. After a moment’s reflection, he turned to Mugniyah.

  “I trust no one but God, Dokhan. And so far you have given me no reason not to trust you. Moshe Abramin? He is a true believer, and I do not think he would willingly betray us. But he is an academic and not a worldly person. He is capable of making mistakes that would betray us and not be aware that he is doing so.”

  “Do you feel he is indiscreet?”

  “Not necessarily, Dokhan, but when the light in a man’s soul burns bright, it often blinds him. And there is the matter of his associates. They are without doubt a dedicated group and capable of this mission, unless they have been penetrated. But like our friend Moshe, their intellect may overshadow their common sense. Still, if your plan is to succeed, we cannot do this without them.” Khalib was silent for a moment, then added, “So your plan calls for a nuclear weapon?”

  “Yes,” Mugniyah replied, “the plan most definitely calls for a nuclear weapon. We will need two.”

  The reach of Mugniyah’s connections and the wealth of his backers had long ago made a nuclear weapon available to the cause. But buying a nuclear weapon was a little like buying street drugs; it was hard to know exactly what you received for the price. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the economic collapse of Ru
ssia, tactical nuclear weapons had become available on the black market. They were expensive, but they were available. Even so, nuclear weapons were not like hand grenades, even the tactical weapons. They had a finite shelf life, and required costly maintenance and skilled technicians to keep them functional. The components of a nuclear weapon degraded—not so much the nuclear cores but the high-explosive components and wiring assemblies that made them function. And there were all manner of nuclear weapons. An implosion fission device, like the one Moshe Abramin had helped develop for Pakistan, was quite primitive. Only recently had the Pakistanis been able to create a weapon of suitable size for use on one of their intermediate-range rockets, a development viewed with much alarm by the Indians. But if Abramin and his small band of fundamentalists could steal two bombs, and they could be spirited out of Pakistan, then the essential criteria for a high-order nuclear explosion were in place—the bomb and those who knew how to detonate it.

  For the next few minutes neither man spoke. “We have no choice,” Khalib said softly. “We must trust Moshe Abramin and his people, up to a point, if we are to be successful. Nonetheless, it is a dangerous business. The objectives of your organization and mine are different, but we will both be served if we can succeed in getting the Americans out of the region.”

  Mugniyah nodded in acknowledgment. “And you, Khalib. I will need you to follow him and see that he does not compromise us. If he is able to remove the weapons from Kahuta, you must be there to make sure he can get them safely out of the area. And once that is done, we must throw the wolves off our trail until we are ready to strike. Can you do this?”