The door to Dina’s office opened and two Iraqi soldiers entered with the man she had come to see. A translator entered behind them.
The detainee was an adult, unlike so many of the prisoners she had seen in this area of the world. Most of them had been boys still in their teens convinced that they were in the process of earning their manhoods. This prisoner was about forty but Dina knew better than to assume the age of his character matched the age of his body. He was an Iraqi, short-bearded and dressed in an orange jumpsuit. He was handcuffed in front with a chain that connected to a leather waistband. That, in turn, dropped a chain to ankle bracelets. The Red Cross had decided that the front-cuffing with two connected pieces was the most comfortable for captives. Dina had no opinion about that. She didn’t think the man’s scowling expression would have been changed by anything except a sackcloth over the head.
That’s not politically correct, she cautioned herself. But that was what the new Iraq did to her. The sense of impending failure with this country they had fought so hard to make safe and decent, now rolling back to the same old ways—guns, drugs, and jihads—it stripped her of her training and left only her instincts. And her instincts were leading her away from anything that looked, sounded, or smelled “humane.” She wished there were a U.S. military Moses who would emerge to smite the enemy and lead all these kids to the Land of Milk and Honey, once and for all time.
The man allowed himself to be placed in the chair in front of her desk. His dark eyes fixed on her pale, fair, blue-eyed face. The soldiers stood at ease on either side of him. The translator sat in a chair to the man’s right, between him and the door.
There was a laptop open in front of Dina. She touched a button but did not break eye contact with the captive.
“You were captured driving a truck full of opium,” she said, “on Highway 6 to Basra. Tell me about it.”
When the translator finished the man just sat there, still staring.
Dina swung the computer around. “This is your settlement in the marshes near Amara, seen from a drone,” she said. “We know there are opium stores. We know the enclave of five huts is yours. We know your wife and sons are home. You will cooperate or the buildings and the bales of drugs will vanish.” She exploded her hands, fingers splaying.
The man didn’t need the translator. He started talking.
Dina knew that the wetlands near Amara, about thirty miles from the border with Iran, had once been the home of the Marsh Arabs, a society largely ignored or reviled by mainstream Iraqis, especially because of tales of Persian blood in their veins. Having long suspected the quiet people of harboring insurgents, in the 1990s the Iraqi government burned the marshes and drained the water in an explicit effort to drive out the Marsh Arabs. It worked. They were scattered across Iraq, some into Iran, and the environment was devastated.
The Americans, arriving in 2003, decided to do the right thing and restore the valuable wetlands to their former state. The reeds grew high again, boatmen resumed paddling on the waterways, and the old tradition of building huts and houses from the reeds was revived. However, recently it had become apparent that only a small percentage of the new populace were members of the original Marsh Arabs. The others were taking advantage of the wetlands that were impossible to police, the border with Iran, the roads to Basra, and the poorly watched ports on the Persian Gulf, to do some highly lucrative business.
He was not trafficking the drugs, the detainee said, and he had no contact with anyone in Iran. He was storing the opium for the agent of someone who had connections in the Iranian plateau. He did not know who the men were or how they worked.
Dina studied him. The dominant stare was important and it belonged to her ice-blue eyes, not to him. She did not break it.
“I want you to take two of our people to the supply,” she said.
The man stiffened, then spoke through the translator: “If I do that, I and my family will be killed.”
“If you do not, the drugs will be destroyed. Now.” She leaned forward slightly. “Unless you have a name of a contact that I can verify, right now. I’m going to be using this computer for something.”
As the translator spoke the man seemed to deflate within his jumpsuit. He asked for water. One of the soldiers held a small plastic bottle with a straw for him. The large bottles could be used as clubs and a glass could be used to inflict wounds. Any bottle, overturned, could damage the computer. Hence, the straw.
The detainee thanked the woman. If he was hoping to gain her sympathy he was wrong. The opium trade helped to fund the Iranian government as well as Al Qaeda. It paid for weapons and it involved cartels that transported those weapons along with the drugs.
“I only know the man who comes to my home,” he said. “The agent.”
“Is he Iraqi or Iranian?”
“He is from Ferdows,” the man replied.
That was a relatively populous city in the Iranian plateau.
“He comes across the border how?” Dina asked.
“I do not know,” the man said. “I meet him on the road, Road 13, near the border. He drives a truck.”
“And you bring him to your boat.”
“Yes, we unload the opium to my boat. Three days later I drive to Basra. I only drive opium. No weapons, no people, opium only.”
Dina noted the extra information.
“Describe his truck, the exact meeting place, and when it is due,” she said. She turned the laptop around and put her fingers over the keyboard.
“Please,” the man said—in English.
Dina grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch the ‘attack’ button by mistake.”
The man appeared thoughtful, then shook his head vigorously. “If I tell you what you want, they will do unspeakable things to my family.”
“Amazing.” Dina’s expression hardened. “These people will torture your wife and children . . . but you hate us.”
“You are kaafir,” he replied without hesitation.
Disbelievers. It was better to read the Koran and kill other readers of the Koran than to accept help from Christians. This world was mad.
“I understand your concern, and these monsters will not know you’ve told me anything,” Dina assured him, focusing on the task at hand. “The drug traffic will not be stopped and the personnel who run it will not be assaulted. We wish to watch them, nothing more.”
“ ‘Watch,’ ” he said dubiously. “Like an eagle eyes a field mouse.”
“No,” Dina said. “Like a nation that doesn’t want weapons of mass destruction on its shores.”
That was true. The route was all that mattered, a route that might one day ferry nuclear materials or biotoxins to the United States, regardless of this pawn’s fervent faith that no weapons were ever transported.
The man took a sip from the water bottle. His mouth was twisted, his expression pinched. His eyes said, If I had poison, I would rather take it than help you.
“Make your choice,” Dina said.
“It is a green MAZ dump truck,” he said. “The driver is named Abda Larijani.”
The translator confirmed the spelling and Dina typed the information into the computer. MAZ was the Minsk Automobile Plant, where Russia had produced heavy road vehicles for decades.
“When is the next pickup?” she asked.
He hesitated again. “How will you do your ‘watching’?”
“I’m not free to discuss that,” she replied.
“Your drones . . . are not silent. He will know.”
“The driver will know nothing,” she said. “This will never be traced to you. Whether you believe it or not, we don’t want anything bad to happen to your family.”
He nodded toward the laptop. “Is that why you were ready to kill them?”
“We don’t want anything to happen to our families, either.”
The man seemed to accept that. “He comes the night after tomorrow. Shortly after sunset.”
The man described the drop site an
d Dina sent the information to the 134th Cavalry Reconnaissance and Surveillance Squadron of the Nebraska Army National Guard. They were in charge of RSTA—reconnaissance, surveillance, and target acquisition—for this particular mission. They would have “tail-running” surveillance on the ground by jeep, out of sight from the truck. The truck would also be tracked by satellite. Stops, contacts, and routes would be carefully marked. The truck and everyone who had any contact with it would join the Active Target Surveillance program at the National Reconnaissance Office, meaning there would be eyes and ears on everyone 24/7 until the full reach and activities of the smuggling system were understood. The route would not be obliterated until they picked up a weapon of mass destruction or a component thereof. Squashing them now would only send the surviving players elsewhere.
Dina swung the laptop around so the detainee could see it again. She pressed a button and a green sign that said ENDED flashed across the image. The surveillance went down. The prisoner did not seem relaxed; he had, after all, just ratted out a deadly ally. But he had averted what he thought was a more immediate danger. It wasn’t, of course. Dina never had any control over the drone. It had been sent there to coerce their guest, nothing more.
Dina told the man he would be released after his information had been confirmed. She followed that with several minutes of silence while she stared at him. The man, at first relieved to know the worst was over, began to exhibit signs of renewed anxiety. Still some water left in this bottle, Dina thought. Just need to put the straw in the right place.
“No weapons?” she asked.
He was adamant that never had he transported or seen any weapons, aside from the machine gun that of course the driver must carry for self-defense.
“And no people,” she said.
“No, no, no, no,” he stated.
She leaned forward. “I think you have been transporting terrorists,” she said.
“No, I have not!”
“It’s not possible that no people should ever take advantage of this route,” she said. “I think we will have to keep you until we hear the truth.”
She stood as if to leave.
The man howled. She had a flash of sympathy for him. He was now in a position of trying to prove what could not be proven.
“Only one man,” the detainee cried out.
“From Iran?” she asked.
“Yes, from Iran, he was a doctor, one week ago. I drove him to Basra, that is all I know.”
She recognized the look of a broken man. She knew he had given her all he had. Her intuition was satisfied. She ordered the soldiers to lead him away.
Alone, Dina exhaled. Only now she realized how much she had perspired, how uncomfortable she truly was, how tense that session had been. She never doubted that she would get the information she wanted; now that she had it, though, she could relax. She alerted Homeland Security’s Office of Counternarcotics Enforcement about any Iranian doctors who might be involved in the opium trade; they would get the message to all other agencies. Then she shut down her laptop, planning on finding a shower and some anti-itch ointment.
The phone on the desk pinged. Two seconds and she would have been out the door. She sighed and picked it up. It was Lt. Gen. Alan Sutter, commander of the American army units that were conducting, so they said, training missions in Iraq. It wasn’t his aide or a lower-ranking officer, but the lieutenant general himself.
“Ma’am, since we have the good fortune of entertaining you here a little longer, might we trouble you with one more matter?”
They sure were polite when they wanted to skip protocol and ask a favor of Homeland Security.
But before she could decide whether to wiggle out of it, he said, “We’ve picked up an American soldier who’s been lost in Iraq for sixteen years.”
CHAPTER TWO
NEW MILFORD, CONNECTICUT
Ryan Kealey stood on the windswept hillside looking out across gently moving treetops. This mild weather on the East Coast seemed more an extension of fall than the beginning of winter, so he was dressed in a tweed blazer, his black hair nearly to the collar—though it was not touching the collar just now. It was blowing gently to the left. Beside him was a slender, older woman with deeply wrinkled skin and eyes younger than his.
“See that blue ridge out there?” Ellie Lammer asked him.
Kealey followed her bony finger. Behind the green hills was a faint line of cliffs against the pale blue sky. “I see it.”
“Those are the Catskills.”
“In New York State?” he said.
Her head nodded beneath the long, blowing expanse of her white hair. “It’s the Taconic Range.”
“Wow.” He smiled. Every night, wherever you were, most of the Earth’s population could see light-years into space. Yet to see something closer, just a few hundred miles distant, seemed exceptional. Maybe because from here, the view was unique. You owned it.
Kealey had seen the FOR SALE sign while he was driving south on Route 7, on his way back from forty-eight hours in Boston. Something about the road leading up and up called to him. Maybe it was because it was a Saturday morning, an ideal time for wandering. Or maybe it was the idea of home. The longest Kealey had ever been anywhere was when he left the CIA, got a teaching gig, and bought a three-story house in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He spent three years there with Katie Donovan. Unlike this fine Connecticut home from the 1980s with its iron columns and hand-hewn wood beams, that old place in Maine defined fixer-upper. He had enjoyed doing the work himself, for himself and Katie. When that ended—
“You didn’t say where you’re from,” Ellie remarked.
“D.C.,” he said.
“Ah,” Ellie smiled. “The hub of things.”
“Yeah, it’s the hub of the world all right,” he said with more than a trace of irony. “At least, that’s what they think. Most of them have no idea what it really means to be plugged into something big. I had a house in Maine, once. That was nice. But it was more a case of me taking pity on it and giving myself something to do with my hands.” He looked at the little lady who was a head shorter than his athletic five foot eleven. “Tell me—you’ve been here thirty years. What have you learned from this place?”
“That I am something big,” she replied. “I am a part of all this. We have fifty acres here and the land behind us was my late husband’s airstrip. He built bridges. He would fly to a job site, then fly home. Even though he was up there in his plane with the clouds and hawks, he said he never felt better than when he was on this ground with the little hummingbirds at eye level. When I flew with him I got—oh, I guess you’d call it some kind of perspective. But it’s like an iron, the kind you use for clothes. It has weight and it has potential but until the wire goes in the wall it’s not really active.”
Kealey had perspective, too. He’d been around the world, in more places of natural beauty and ancient hostility than he cared to remember, from South Africa to Iran. All those journeys left him with was a severe case of dark, clinging cynicism.
“Why are you leaving, then?” Kealey asked. “Memories?”
“No,” she said. “Snow. I can’t work the damn plow and on social security I can’t afford to have someone do it or help keep up the half mile of dirt road. I won’t lie to you, it gets rutted and the gravel rolls away when there are gully washers. I’m going to Sedona, Arizona, to join my younger sister in her New Age shop.” She glanced at his hand. “If I’m not prying—well, I am—I don’t see a ring. You got a girl . . . or a guy? I guess you have to ask that now.”
“I’m sort of seeing someone,” he said. “She’s a psychiatrist but she doesn’t want to leave Washington.”
“Good business to be in there, I guess.”
“Very.”
“You want to leave.”
“I already have,” he said. “I just don’t know where I’m going.”
“This is a good place to find yourself,” she said. “I’m not trying to sell you on it. That’s just a
fact.”
Kealey couldn’t disagree. The woods in front of him were vital and nurturing. The house behind him, a boxy contemporary, reminded him of the pillboxes on Normandy Beach, built to keep trouble at bay without making you feel like you were a prisoner. And the airstrip behind the house, though overgrown from neglect, was a long stretch of calm. He had not gone over to the hangar, which reminded him of one of those old airship shelters from the age of the zeppelin. This was the kind of place where, he was sure, if he closed his eyes he would hear the hum of long-silent propeller engines.. . .
“I desperately want to leave D.C.,” he said. “I was interviewing for a teaching job in Boston, but I realized I don’t want to go from one bureaucracy to another. I need to find something else.”
“What kind of work did you do there?”
“Intelligence.”
“We could use a good home security store in town,” she said. “Not that you need anything up here. I’ve got a shotgun but I’ve never had to chase anyone off. Hell, I’ve never even locked my door.”
Kealey took his cell phone from his shirt pocket to take photos.
“Reception’s pretty good here,” Ellie said.
“You’re close enough to orbiting satellites,” Kealey joked.
“I’m told I could see them if I knew where to look,” she said. “I have broadband and a TV dish on the roof. All the modern whatnots. I also have chipmunks, deer, and you can see thunderstorms coming from up here like no one’s business!”
“Yin and yang,” Kealey said with a grin.
The breeze and morning sun felt good on his face and scalp. It was strange. The last time he talked to anyone about the Maine house was with Allison Dearborn. They were out at the aquarium at the harbor in Baltimore when the convention center became the epicenter of a terrorist attack. He came alive then, too, but in a different way—prepared to enter a crime scene, weaponed-up, ready to take down terrorists and free hostages.
This way, breathing wondrously clean air, was preferable. It had nothing to do with feeling physically safe. He never expected to be injured when he went into combat; his brain was too adrenaline-pumped for that. It didn’t have to do with being in his early forties and feeling a little stiffer after each run through a burning building or wheel-wrenching drive through a kill zone.
Threatcon Delta Page 3
