by Brad Taylor
Hussein knew Jacob would never be a Muslim. He was nothing like Carlos and Devon, two men who lacked both the intelligence and the self-esteem to even understand the cause they were being used to serve. Embracing the charnel house as a womb, they projected onto others the pain they’d felt their entire lives, for the first time harnessing a power they’d never had by holding a blade in their fist. A blade that was not only sanctioned but encouraged.
Jacob was different. And had grown more distinct in the time they’d been inside Syria. He was like a pit bull that had been trained in a gladitorial arena, punished again and again, then released into the wild. Free to run among the other dogs, but holding a killer instinct that none of the others possessed.
Hussein remembered cutting the head off of the other Kurd. Remembered the revulsion and the absolute fear. Remembered the man’s life force leaving his body as his limbs vibrated in their binds, the tapping of his legs as he cut, the image seared into his conscious like a physical branding, never allowing him to sleep again.
But what he remembered most of all was Jacob yelling at him. Jacob ordering him to do it for the white house. Jacob’s eyes boring into him. A visage completely devoid of emotion or empathy. A man who had crossed over. It scared him beyond belief, and he no longer knew if his greatest sin was killing the Kurd or turning Jacob loose.
The truck bounced along, traveling ever north, and Jacob scooted over to him, leaning in close. He said, “You can leave once you get to Jordan. You know that, right?”
Hussein said, “I won’t do that. I know my duty.”
“Bullshit. You aren’t cut out for this. Get to Jordan and get out. Anyone says anything about hunting you, and I’ll deal with them.”
Hussein studied his friend, seeing the same compassion from after the white house, when he’d been thrown back into the barracks. After the atrocities. Seeing the man who had helped him survive those days. Conflicted, he said, “Ringo told me what will happen if I flee. They’ll kill my father.”
“Why does that matter? That asshole left you when you were four. You don’t even know him. He’s getting what he deserves. You wouldn’t even be in this mess if he’d hung around.”
Hussein looked into Jacob’s dead eyes and wished he had the same pitiless mind-set. He did not.
“I know. I know in my heart, but I don’t know if I can do it.”
Jacob laughed and said, “You were always soft. Even inside.”
Hussein had a wild fantasy flit through his head, a solution to all of their problems. He said, “My mission is easy. All I have to do is get a door open, away from the security of the hotel.”
“So killing a hundred people is worth the life of your father? A guy you’ve never known?”
Hussein drew in, tucking his head like a turtle, wanting to get away from what his simple opening of a door would accomplish. He said, “What about you? You’re going to be a shahid. Kill yourself. You want to go out like that?”
Jacob got that distant look on his face and said, “I’ll follow this a little bit further.” He glanced at Hussein and said, “They made us study the Catholic faith. Remember when we used to talk about jamming broomsticks up the asses of those preachers? The same way the guards did to us? It looks like I might get that chance.”
Hussein said, “Our school wasn’t Catholic.”
“Fucking close enough.”
Hussein thought about telling Jacob his terrible secret. Fantasized about recruiting Jacob, then turning himself in at the Jordanian border, explaining how he had to ditch all of the communication methods he’d been given for survival—instead of the truth that he’d simply crumbled under outright fear.
They’d be pleased he’d survived, and would want to know what was being planned, and he could tell them. About Jordan, anyway. He had no idea what the rest of the Lost Boys were up to. But he could tell them he had a much stronger man on the inside. Jacob.
The thoughts flitted through his head, and he realized he could not. He was trapped between the loyalty Jacob required and the insanity of the Islamic State.
If he broached the hows and whys of his trip to Syria, laying bare his recruitment as a snitch, he would feel the wrath of Jacob. And he’d seen how his friend treated traitors.
He said, “Maybe we should both flee. Maybe you could meet me in Jordan.”
Jacob said, “Maybe so.”
But Hussein knew it wouldn’t happen. Saw the divide growing ever larger between them. Hussein was still clinging to his self-preservation. Still trying to find a way out of the maze of death he’d created.
Jacob was embracing it.
21
For the first time in his career as commander of the Taskforce, Kurt Hale sat to the side as Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, took a pounding. While he would have enjoyed the respite, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man, along with a hefty dose of skepticism as to why he was even in the room. Ali Jaafar Hussein, aka LEOPARD, was turning into a disaster, but it wasn’t a Taskforce problem. This was a mess for the congressional intelligence oversight committees, not for the principals of the Oversight Council.
President Warren shook his head in disgust. “How in the hell did he get from Syria to Jordan?”
Kerry said, “He flew. Some podunk airline from Oguzeli Airport in southern Turkey.”
The secretary of defense said, “How did that happen? I thought you were going to spread his name all over the place.”
Kerry said, “I did, I did. The point was to keep him from coming home. The no-fly list is for people traveling to or from the United States. I can’t help it if a two-bit commuter airline still using paper tickets let him go.”
Billings, the secretary of state, asked, “How did he get through immigration? If you told our allies his name?”
Kerry rubbed his eyes and said, “Once again, that was to prevent him from attempting to come home. To conduct an attack here. Getting out of Turkey from that airport required only a stamp because he has an American passport. I doubt his name was even run. Getting into Jordan required a visa, which he bought at the airport. He was let into the country, but our liaison alerted me, just as I asked. If he’d have tried to board an aircraft to the United States, he would have been stopped.”
President Warren said, “Why didn’t they detain him in Jordan?”
“Because I was afraid of the repercussions. They alerted me, and I thanked them. I couldn’t tell them he was a rogue agent, and I certainly didn’t want them interrogating him. After what happened in Afghanistan with the Jordanian triple agent, if Hussein had said one word about being a US asset, then about beheading someone in Syria, it would be on the world stage. The Jordanians would leak it sure as shit, and we don’t need those complications.”
President Warren said, “So what now?”
Cynically, Kurt wondered if the conversation had been scripted between the president and Kerry. Then realized why he was in the room, even if everyone else didn’t.
Kerry said, “Now we go get him.”
Billings said, “Inside Jordan?”
“Yes. He never reported, but he has information. He can give that up willingly or unwillingly, but he’s going to give it up.”
The SECDEF said, “If you’re going to roll him up in Jordan, why not just do it at the border?”
Billings said, “He’s already through the border, so getting him in Jordan is ridiculous anyway.”
“No, it’s not,” said Kerry, “We have an anchor. We know where his father works in Amman. That’s the only reason he could be in Jordan.”
The SECDEF said, “Then why not just have the Jordanians go get him?”
“The same reasons I said before. I want a clandestine hit. A Taskforce hit. I don’t want anyone even knowing he exists. I can’t do that with CIA assets. We’re too close to Jordanian liaison for an operation like this. Too many equities in play. I stand by my earlier words, but the fact is that we need to maintain our relationship with the Jordanians. Th
ey are a staunch ally, and we need their help in the fight. I want to separate this. Keep it clean.”
Kurt heard the words, remaining silent, but already calculating the operational parameters. President Warren said, “Kurt?”
He leaned forward and said, “I can do that. It’s pretty much a textbook operation, and Amman is an easy place to work. We’ve been there many times. As long as you guys are comfortable with me targeting a US citizen, I’m okay with it. It’s a gray line, though. I don’t want to hear any yelling after it’s done.”
President Warren looked around the room, then said, “He cut off a man’s head with a butcher knife. I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”
Kerry said, “You mentioned a team in Istanbul. I was thinking you could redeploy them tonight or tomorrow. Get them on the ground and start working. I’ll give you all the intelligence you need.”
Kurt nodded, thinking, then said, “Yeah, that would be quickest, but I’d like to keep them in Turkey. Their cover is working a natural gas pipeline contract, and that doesn’t translate easily to Jordan. I break them free, and I can’t get them back into Turkey. We might need to pull that trigger later.”
“So you’re saying you can’t do it?”
“No. I’m saying that Jordan has other unique cover opportunities. It’s full of old stuff, all over the country. I already have an established UNESCO world heritage site cover there, and I want to use it.”
Like he was spitting out spoiled milk, Billings said, “You mean Pike.”
Kurt smiled and said, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Why him? I thought he was tied up in Nairobi. Surely there’s someone else.”
“There are a lot of archeological sites in Jordan. It’s perfect for his team’s cover. Get him and Jennifer in there, and they’ll have free rein.”
“Free rein to cause an international incident.”
Kurt bristled, and President Warren interrupted. “Enough. We make the Omega call, Kurt decides the operational parameters. So, is it Omega here?”
Kerry said, “Yes, for me. I think it would be best. The quicker we get Hussein under controlled interrogation, the longer we’ll have to determine the inside threats from the Islamic State.”
The president went around the room, and the Oversight Council raised their hands one by one, with Billings being the only dissenting vote.
President Warren said, “Looks like you’ve got your Omega. Get Pike moving.”
22
After waiting much longer than he thought he would, Ali Hussein began to believe his father had decided to ignore him, which brought a sliver of fear. Ringo and his team were supposed to arrive from Ma’an tomorrow, and if he couldn’t deliver, he was sure he’d be discarded, his throat cut, left to bleed out in an unnamed village in the desert.
He glanced around the cavernous lobby of the Grand Hyatt, seeing a woman at the reception desk stealing furtive glances his way. Soon enough, one of the security guards manning the metal detectors at the door would ask him his business, then ask him to leave.
He stood up, thinking he’d go to the restroom just to quell the heat of the glares, when he saw a man coming across the lobby. He stared, trying to remember, peeling back layers of vague recollections from a lifetime ago. Trying to reconcile the person walking with a wrinkled, yellowed photo of his father taken fifteen years earlier. The only one he’d ever seen.
He thought it might be him. When the man looked him dead in the eye, he knew it was. He waited, shifting from foot to foot and running through in his head what he had come to call “The Speech.”
As he got closer, Hussein saw he was well groomed and immaculately dressed, with a pair of crossed gold keys on his lapel.
He’s the concierge. He never mentioned that in our emails.
Before they’d fled into the desert from the training camp in Syria, Omar had located his father and had had Hussein initiate contact. They’d emailed back and forth twice, but beyond Omar knowing that he worked at the Grand Hyatt—because that was the email address Omar had found—he’d never mentioned being a concierge. Which was both good and bad. Good in that it meant that his father had worked his way up from the bottom, and was valued by the hotel management, but bad precisely because he would hold his reputation before anything else.
The stranger stopped in front of him, and Hussein was at a loss for what to do. He tried a smile, which came out as a grimace, and his father said, “Ali.” The stranger stared at Hussein for a moment, overcome by emotion. He said the name over and over again, as if to convince himself it was real. “Ali, Ali, Ali, I never thought I would see you again.”
Then his father embraced him.
Hussein was shocked. He plumbed the depths of his memory, trying to remember anyone showing him true affection. He could not. Even the love he’d experienced with women had all been paid, either in dollars or drugs. He was unsure what to do, his arms in the air looking for a place to go.
His father drew back, holding both of Hussein’s shoulders at arm’s length. Hussein actually saw a tear in his eye. Unable to come up with anything else, Hussein said, “Hello, Father.”
Which caused another round of embracing. The entire episode was confusing to Hussein. He’d expected to cajole or beg, knowing that his father wanted nothing to do with him. After all, if he did, why did he leave so long ago? He had so many questions.
His father said, “Come, come,” leading him to a table in the foyer, away from the front door. “Sit, sit.”
Hussein did so. His father said, “How did you come here? How is your mother?”
“She’s in jail. Drugs. I haven’t seen her almost as long as you.”
The smile faded from his father’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.”
Hussein had a planned speech. A quick way to get what he wanted, the same act he’d used to get through most of his life. A plausible lie wrapped in a pit of treachery. What came out surprised him.
“Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?”
His father glanced out the window, staring but not seeing the street beyond. Reflecting. He said, “I always intended to come back. I never wanted to leave. I was on a visa when I met your mother. She became pregnant, and I began to apply for citizenship. Then she became hooked on drugs.”
His eyes teared up again, and Hussein felt his conviction falter. His mission began to dissolve. His father continued, “I was a taxi driver. I made no money, and she began to burn through it all. I tried to get her out, but failed. Then, the terrorist attack in New York happened. The World Trade Center fell, and everything changed. She was arrested one more time, and my visa was revoked. They said I was involved in her crimes, then accused me of planning attacks against America. They threatened me with jail, and I saw the news about the detention centers in Cuba. They couldn’t prove anything, but I was so scared. They just deported me as a nondesirable. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t fight it.”
He began to cry, and Hussein rubbed his arm, reeling with the truth that obliterated all of his pent-up loathing. “It’s all right, Father. It’s okay.”
His father looked up and said, “I am ashamed that it is you who had to find me, but I’m proud at the same time. You are what I would like to be. You look good.”
Hussein laughed and said, “No, I don’t.”
“That’s true. You don’t, but you look good to me.”
They sat in silence for a moment, his father drinking in the visit and Hussein conflicted about why he’d come. Eventually, his father said, “So, what can I do for you?”
Snapped out of his thoughts, Hussein gave his speech. “I’m only here for a month. I traveled a great distance to see you, and I’ve used up all of my funds. I have a place in east Amman. It’s paid for, but I need work to live. I need a job.”
His father said, “Nonsense. You’ll come live with me. Leave that place behind.”
Which was the complete opposite of what Hussein had expected. H
e thought about it. Freedom, tantalizingly close. Then he remembered Omar. Remembered that Omar knew where his father worked. Knew everything, including how to punish.
There was no easy way out.
“No, no. I want to make my way. I want to work. I want to establish myself. Let me do this my way. All I ask of you is a job.”
His father leaned back and said, “I wish I could do that. I can give you my home, but I can’t give you a job. You are probably too young to remember, but terrorists blew up this hotel in 2005. I was working, and it was horrible. Since then, they’ve become very, very strict about hires. Background checks and everything else.”
“I’ll do anything. Clean rooms, maintenance, whatever. I’m not looking for a cush job. Just one that lets me survive.” And gives me a key to a door away from the security.
He banished that thought as something to deal with later. When he could analyze where he was.
His father said, “It’s not the position. Everyone gets the same scrutiny.”
“But I’m an American citizen with a well-respected father. Right? Surely that counts.”
His father reflected for a moment, then said, “There’s an opening in the kitchen. It’s a cleaning position. You’ll have to spend your time scrubbing ovens and hauling trash out of the building, but I think I can get through the red tape because of the unique circumstances.”
Hussein said, “I’ll take it.”
His father patted his arm and said, “Let me get the applications. Help you fill them out.”
He left to gather the paperwork, and Hussein wondered again at his father’s love. Wondered if he had it in him to use that love to kill.
23
Rashid al-Jaza’iri said, “Play the tape again.”
The man to his front clicked the digital button on the computer, and the conversation came out anew. A voice discussing a meeting, and another voice agreeing. The second man on the recording was the one that intrigued him.
