“I think the two of you have suffered enough that you’ve earned the right to be here,” said O’Neill, the New York City police commissioner. “I just don’t want you on the street.”
O’Neill walked to the window on the right, the one that looked down into Suffolk Street, and stood on the opposite side of the officer with the binoculars. He motioned Connor to join him and for Stew to take up station in the other window.
“Try to stay out of sight, but take a look into the street below and tell me everything you see.”
Connor peered around the side of the window looking south, down Suffolk, and then stretched his neck to look uptown. The sun was still an hour from setting, and even though shadows were growing longer, there was still enough light for good visibility on the street. “Two women, Hispanic looking, talking on the far side of the street, shopping carts by their sides. A taxicab, looks like he’s waiting for a fare. At the corner, a UPS truck—double-parked—the driver making a delivery to the corner bodega. And a lot of pedestrians.”
O’Neill nodded his head and looked over at Manthey. “Stew?”
“Mr. Softee truck down below—I’d know that music anywhere—and a corner vendor’s truck selling pita and falafel. Mailman walking down the street. And a—”
“Site two has eyes on Clinton at Stanton. Walking south,” said the officer across the window from Connor.
O’Neill tipped his head toward the window. “Watch.”
Connor shifted so he could watch north on Clinton Street. A bicycle-riding messenger came south on Clinton.
“Messenger, double back and ride west on Rivington,” crackled out of a radio.
The messenger turned left on Rivington and, halfway down the block, made a U-turn and waited on the sidewalk.
“Postman, north on Clinton.”
The mailman turned left, north on Clinton.
“Ladies to the bodega.”
“Subjects have crossed Clinton to the east side,” said the other officer. “Still walking south.”
Connor watched as the ballet continued outside his window. Then he saw two men walking south on the east side of Clinton. They looked like merchant sailors, sea bags slung over their shoulders. And they looked familiar.
“Hey,” and he pointed.
“Yeah,” said O’Neill, “those are your boys. Keep your eyes open.”
“And joggers south on Clinton.”
The two men approached the corner of Clinton and Rivington, where the bodega was situated.
“Bring up the bus. UPS into the truck.”
Approaching from Rivington, heading east, an Access-a-Ride van—the city’s on-call transportation system for the disabled—slowly approached the Clinton intersection.
The two men turned the corner onto Rivington Street, walking east.
“Ladies out … joggers pass ’em …”
The white-and-blue Access-a-Ride van slowed to a crawl as the joggers ran past the two men, the ladies with the shopping carts came up behind, and the UPS driver came out of his truck.
“Out of sight … take ’em now.”
If Connor hadn’t been keenly watching each move, even he might have missed what happened next. In near flawless choreography, the joggers turned abruptly and ran straight at the two men, who stopped in their tracks and were bowled over by the shopping carts. Before they could fall to the sidewalk, the two joggers latched on to one of the men, the two ladies—who now lost their wigs—manhandled the second, while the UPS man threw open the side doors of the Access-a-Ride van. The two men with the sea bags were inside the van along with their captors, the doors closed, before Connor could react.
“Whoa!”
“Not over yet,” said O’Neill.
“Postman, take the door. Messenger, the back alley.”
“Halfway up the block on Clinton,” said O’Neill, “Keep an eye on the building they came from. C’mon over to this side.”
Connor switched to the far side of the window and looked up Clinton.
An old black car with a Domino’s Pizza sign suction-cupped to the roof pulled up in front of the same building the postman approached. A very big man jumped out, reached in the back of the car, pulled out a stack of pizza boxes, and bounded up the steps of the five-story walkup.
The taxi pulled up Clinton Street and stopped in the middle, blocking traffic. Two men in Mr. Softee uniforms ran up the sidewalk. The taxi driver and the ice-cream peddlers rushed up the stairs behind the pizza delivery.
“Con Ed, cover the back. Third floor.”
A high-flying helicopter materialized from someplace west and stopped, hovering over the building.
“Go.”
Connor looked at O’Neill. “Who are these guys?”
The officer on the far side of the window looked over at Connor and smiled. “We call ourselves the Army of the Invisible,” he said, turning his attention back to the operation taking place up the street. “You see us every day, but you don’t know we’re there. NYPD has thirty-five thousand uniformed officers. There are almost—”
The officer put the binoculars up to his eyes. He must have been getting a message.
“There were five. Con Ed, we’ve got one on the loose. Be careful. All units, cordon off the area.”
Connor watched as individuals he hadn’t noticed before came out of the community center, out of the bodega, out of an auto garage on the far side of Rivington Street. They all converged on the center of Clinton Street, taking different routes.
“Two in hand, sir. One running … no … got ’em coming down the fire escape. All five in hand, sir.”
“Good job, Captain,” said O’Neill. “Split ’em up. Different cars. Take them to the holding center, separate cells. I think we got them all, but bring in the interrogators, just in case.”
O’Neill turned from the window, put his hand on Connor’s back. “That’s it. Not your TV cop drama, but efficient. You don’t have to worry about the Prophet’s Guard anymore, at least not here in New York.”
Manthey fell in alongside them as they left the room and walked into the hall. “How did you find them?”
“A tip. We got the word out again after they attacked the two of you in the taxicab. Those two were planning to leave the country. They contacted somebody for help. That individual has helped us out before.”
The theater lobby was empty as they crossed to the front door of the Clemente Center. “Now what?” asked Manthey.
“Now they go to jail for a very long time.”
42
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
6:12 a.m., the desert, south of Hillah, Iraq
Under the flaps of the black tent, morning light was a dim intention yet to express itself. Annie Bohannon sat on the edge of a canvas stool, holding the hand and strengthening the soul of her friend, Latiffa Naouri, who had stumbled into camp in the last darkness of night, battered, bruised, and bewildered. But alive. Holding Latiffa’s hand, Annie allowed her fingers to linger over her wrist. Her pulse was heavy, rugged, and irregular. But calmer than ten minutes ago.
“I didn’t expect to live. I don’t think I understand why they let me live.”
“Take deep breaths,” said Annie. “Tell me what happened.”
Latiffa was on her way back to her apartment in Baghdad when the road was blocked by two black SUVs. A third closed from behind when her driver slowed down. “They wanted to know where you were, where your camp was,” said Latiffa, as slim fingers of sunlight began to transform the dusky desert floor into subtle hues of tan and blue. “That’s all they cared about. I think I gave them directions to the dunes south of al Qasim. I believe … I don’t know. It’s all so blurry. But I didn’t want to give you away. I don’t think I told them the Wadi Defenneh. I hope not.” Her eyes glazed over as she stared into the distance.
“They stopped hitting me. That’s when I thought—”
“Shh … here, drink some water.” Annie handed Latiffa a canteen and used the moment to assess the dam
age in the growing light. The left side of Latiffa’s face was ruined. Wide purple-and-red welts were interspersed with sickly yellow streaks of puffy, swollen skin. Her left eye had been pummeled closed, the eyelid bulging out beyond her left eyebrow. Her nose was traveling in a new direction, and her upper lip had been ripped into two gashes. Annie held a wet cloth to a golf-ball-sized bump, with a bleeding cut, just above Latiffa’s temple.
The beating had shattered Naouri’s face, but not her resolve.
“One of them must have gotten a message because he came back and told the others that you were in Babylon.
“The men, they left quickly when they got the message. One stayed. But there was a fight. My driver, I think, tried to rescue me. I passed out. There were two bodies by the side of the road when I became conscious.” She buried her battered face with shaking hands. “My driver—he had three children. Somehow, I drove here.”
“It’s a good thing you came back here and not back to Baghdad,” said Annie. She pulled a gauze pad and a roll of bandage from the first-aid kit by her feet and carefully cared for the wound above Latiffa’s temple. “I don’t think you would have made it home.” Annie fastened the bandage. “Do you have any idea who these men were?”
Latiffa closed her eyes. The movement of her head back and forth was nearly imperceptible, as if avoiding any further damage. “Special Apparatus … the Brotherhood … agents from the Prophet’s Guard—I don’t know. Whoever it is, they are determined to find you. And I’m afraid I may have put you in even more danger. It’s possible now they know where to look.”
Latiffa swept a handful of hair from her face, back over her head, away from the wound. She turned in Annie’s direction. “They lost you in the desert last night. But they will return today. You have no way out.”
As she returned the remaining bandage to the first-aid kit, Annie felt a stab of fear about their chances for escape, but then a strengthening determination.
“Annie, you should come over here.”
At Tom’s voice, her head jerked up. She looked over Naouri’s shoulder into the center of the camp and the mounds of gritty desert to the west. In the strengthening light, a long line of camels crested the ridgeline of the deep desert defile that defined the Wadi Deffeneh.
“You have no way out,” echoed in her head. Her voice was almost a whisper even to her own ear. “Perhaps we do.”
With a purposeful, undulating gait, the camel line flowed along the rim of the ridge, a tide of grunts and tawny fur breaking upon the dawn. A group of riders, some on horses, broke away from the camel caravan, raced down the face of the ridge, and galloped toward the encampment.
Annie got to her feet and stepped from within the shelter of the tent. To her left, looking like they just rolled out of their sleeping bags, Tom, Joe, and two of the National Geographic crew were leaning across the hoods of two Land Rovers, high-powered rifles cradled in their arms. Sweet. Always the protector.
“Don’t shoot … it’s okay,” she said, waving her left hand in Tom’s direction. “It’s okay.”
The palm of her right hand shading her eyes, Annie started walking forward, toward the oncoming riders, not giving Tom a chance to challenge either her or the riders. She felt the thunder of the heavy hooves closing fast, a pungent perfume of musk and camel droppings enveloping her in a swirling cloud of grit and sand that filled her nostrils and covered her hair.
Like a dirt shower falling from the sky, the billows of sand settled around Annie, revealing a glistening, black stallion with heavily muscled haunches. It stopped inches from her face. “Welcome, Wind of the Desert,” said Annie as she stood in the shade of the lead rider.
In a flourish of robes, his face still covered by the long tail of his keffiyeh, the rider slipped off the gleaming black stallion and approached Annie. “Welcome back, Lily of the River,” he said. “I never thought I would see you again.”
“I don’t care if he’s the Grand Wazoo of Turkmenistan,” Tom exploded, “we’re not going to tell this guy why we’re here. I don’t know him. Why should I trust him?”
Annie sat in a camp chair on the other side of the tent, a canteen in her hand, halfway to her mouth. Joe and Rizzo were on her right, Latiffa Naouri stretched out on a cot, and Mike Whalen on her left.
“Because I trust him.” Annie pushed the words out between her clenched teeth. Her grip on the canteen tightened as her anger and frustration increased. “For the last thirty years, Kabir’s tribe has been the only law and order in the western Iraqi desert. He’s commander of the Anbar Awakening militia that fought against Al Qaeda and shoulder-to-shoulder with US Marines, driving both the terrorists and the bandits from this section of the country. Kabir bows his knee to no man—certainly not the Prophet’s Guard, or the Muslim Brotherhood, or ISIS, or any other group of power-hungry crazies.”
Tom paced across the length of the tent. He stopped suddenly and turned to face Annie. “And how do you know so much about this guy who just materialized out of the desert?”
Annie took a long, slow drink from the canteen, selecting her words as if they were ingredients in a recipe. She wiped her lips on her sleeve as she shot a glance toward Sammy. From the look on his face, he appeared to be enjoying the show. She got up from the chair, walked over to Tom, and offered him the canteen.
“I was here at the beginning of my career, doing a photo shoot in Ur. It was before I met you, Tom. Kabir had just driven the worst bandits out of Anbar Province. We asked him for protection. His father was sheik then, but it was Kabir who led the fighters of the Awakening. We spent a lot of time together, then. And he didn’t just materialize. I contacted Kabir before we left Jerusalem. Told him where we were headed. And asked for his help.”
For an eternal moment, Bohannon felt like his stomach had dropped to the floor and bounced back up into his throat. But then Annie took his left hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pressed into his side. There was a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m flattered, sweetie. But that was a long time ago, a long time before you. We were friends. That’s all I could offer him.”
Annie kissed him. Full and warm, her fingers slipping into the hair at his neck. Doubt … fear … melted away as his heart began to trip faster. She pulled back and stared into his eyes. “But thanks for the moment, my hero.”
He didn’t realize Mike Whalen had come up to his side.
“Tom,” Whalen whispered, taking Bohannon by the elbow, “come outside for a minute. There’s something I want to tell you.”
His lips still tasted Annie’s as he followed Whalen outside the tent. The National Geographic crew leader leaned against one of the Land Rovers and pulled a battered, half-smoked cigar out of his shirt pocket. He pointed the cigar at Bohannon. “You need to understand something about what’s going on out here,” he said, before tucking the cigar into the right corner of his mouth.
“Back in oh-five, the marines out in this part of Iraq were getting pounded. Fallujah and Ramadi were strongholds of the Sunni militias who opposed both the ouster of their patron Saddam and the American occupation. You gotta remember that Saddam was Sunni and he kept the Sunnis, a minority in Iraq, in power by oppressing the Shiite majority. When Saddam fell and Americans occupied Iraq, it left a power vacuum. One of the biggest mistakes President Bush made was to disband the Iraqi Army and outlaw the top leadership levels of the Baath Party, the Sunnis. Iraq was left without a functioning government and without a functioning military to enforce the law.
“It didn’t take long for Al Qaeda to show up. There was an Al Qaeda terror group of fundamental Islamists in Syria. When Saddam fell, Al Qaeda flooded across the Syrian border into Iraq, into the cities of Fallujah and Ramadi. For all intents, Al Qaeda became the rulers of western Iraq. At least, until the tribes rose.”
Whalen took the stub of cigar out of his mouth and pointed its mangled, chewed-on end in Bohannon’s direction. “The Albu Mahals, a tribe that moved with impunity across the borders of Jordan, Syria, Iraq, and Saudi
Arabia, called together the leaders of the tribes of Anbar Province. They were Sunni, but they hated Al Qaeda more than they distrusted the Shi’a. Sheik Abdul led the Anbar Awakening. They called themselves the Sons of Iraq and joined forces with US marines to fight against Al Qaeda. The battle for Anbar Province was one of the most brutal and intense of the Iraq war but, between the marines and the Awakening, they beat the living daylights out of Al Qaeda and the militias and drove them back into Syria. By 2008, the Anbar Awakening was an army of over fifty thousand strong, and the west was secure.”
Back in his mouth, the cigar bounced around like moving punctuation. “Today, the situation out here is ten times worse. When the United States pulled its troops out of Iraq in 2011, sectarian violence escalated, and Al Qaeda—now merged with an even more radical group of Syrian jihadists—returned with a vengeance. You know, forty-five hundred American soldiers lost their lives in the eight-year war with Iraq. Well, last year alone over eight thousand Iraqis were killed in this sectarian civil war. Eight thousand in just one year. Just a few weeks ago, this new incarnation of Al Qaeda—ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham—overran both Fallujah and Ramadi once again and took control of the cities from government troops. Al Qaeda is threatening to cut this country in half. And this guy”—he gestured with his thumb in the direction of Kabir, who was overseeing the care of his camel caravan—“I’ve heard of him before. Sheik Abdul was his uncle. This guy is now the head of the Anbar Awakening. And he is a fearless enemy of Al Qaeda.”
Whalen pushed off the side of the Land Rover and stepped closer to Tom.
“Listen. If Naouri is right, you are not going back to Baghdad, and you are not going back to Israel on some comfortable airplane. If you want to get that package of yours out of here and back to Jerusalem safely, then you better put any concern you have about Kabir aside. Because I think this guy may be the only ticket you have—hey, the only ticket any of us have. If we don’t get out of here soon, I can almost guarantee we’ll be in a firefight right on this spot. So suck it up Tom, and let’s listen to what this guy has to say. And”—he put his hand on Tom’s shoulder—“give your wife a break.”
The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) Page 35
