Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  “Not a problem.”

  She turned back to Johnston. “Why don’t you join us, Jim? We’re just having a casual dinner.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “He’ll come,” Derek said, noticing a new light in Jim’s eyes.

  “Derek. I don’t want to—”

  “It’s fine. Stick around.”

  Without much fight, Johnston graciously agreed. Misty, with almost a giggle, trotted out of the cabin and headed back to her own boat.

  “Box?” Johnston said.

  “It’s what CrossFit junkies call their gyms.”

  “She’s attractive.”

  Derek laughed. “Shit, Jim, she’s smoking hot. She’s two years older than you. And no, we don’t have anything going on.”

  Johnston grinned. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Three hours later, after a delicious dinner of cilantro-lime marinated veggie kabobs and grilled tofu tacos, they were on their third bottle of wine. The three of them were sitting up on the top deck of Misty’s houseboat. It was a cool night, but Misty had space heaters going that kept them comfortable. She was particularly attentive to Johnston, which amused Derek no end, because Jim was responding in kind.

  Johnston was saying, “ … so Derek and I and this Mossad agent, what was her name?”

  “Noa Shoshan,” Derek said.

  “Yeah, right. A real ballbuster. She was our expert on Afghanistan, this was back in about ’92. She was all business. The first thing we do, we stop in Peshawar to talk to a CIA guy who was going to give us some background. We go to the oldest part of the city, where there’s this bazaar, we’re looking for our CIA guy, and the first thing Derek here does is start shopping.”

  “For what?” Misty asked, hanging on every word.

  “Pots and pans!” Jim said. “You should have seen the look on Noa’s face. She thought he was insane.”

  Sipping at the wine, Derek said, “Method to my madness.”

  “There always is,” Johnston agreed. “You bought a bunch of crap, as I recall. Pots and pans, candy. I remember, the first thing you bought was a copper tea kettle.”

  “It was gorgeous, too, and a bargain.” Derek grinned.

  “Noa thought he was picking up souvenirs. I mean, he had a ton of crap. Goat jerky—”

  “Goat jerky?”

  “A rug. What else, Derek?”

  “Oh, man. It’s been a long time, Misty. Probably some dates, some tea.”

  “The thing is,” Johnston said. “Noa thought he was crazy, but he was brilliant. We’re running around Afghanistan after the Russians pulled out, trying to see what weapons they might have left behind, and Derek was presenting them with these gifts he

  bought. It worked.”

  “The mission,” Derek said, “was sort of a train wreck. Noa got her ass shot up and we barely got her out of there alive.”

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t believe it,” Johnston said. “We got a lift from this Russian chopper pilot who didn’t leave Russia, he stole a chopper and used it for anyone who could afford him.”

  “Mostly,” Derek said, “he was working for whatever tribe made the most money from selling opium. Which he was addicted to.”

  “You guys lived exciting lives.”

  “As the Chinese curse goes, may you live in interesting times, or something like that.” Derek glanced at his watch. “Well, this has been fantastic. But I’ve got to catch an early flight tomorrow.” He stood up, leaned down and kissed Misty on the cheek.

  When Jim started to get him, too, Derek waved him off. “Hey, you’re having a good time. Don’t leave just because I’m leaving.”

  “Please stay,” Misty said. “We haven’t finished this last bottle yet.”

  Johnston settled back in his chair. He looked at Derek. “Where to?”

  “Florida.”

  “What’s in Florida?” Misty asked. “Off to hunt down a terrorist?”

  “Sort of. I’m going to Guantanamo Bay to talk to one.”

  Misty laughed uncertainly. “For real?”

  Derek nodded.

  Holding out his hand, Johnston said, “Think over what I said.”

  “I’m sure I will. Goodnight.”

  In theory, Derek was going to only be gone one day, two at the most. But he packed his Go Packs, a frame backpack and a duffel bag, that he always kept ready with the basics of what he might need if called out into the field. It was an absolute necessity when he was a troubleshooter for Homeland Security. Since being attached to State he hadn’t had much need.

  He went through them, making sure he had clothes, making sure his specialized first aid kit was stocked with things like Atropine and iodine and Cipro—Armageddon First Aid, he sometimes thought, for dealing with chemical, biological and radiation attacks. Or trying to.

  “Weird fucking life,” he muttered.

  He tore apart two handguns, a Colt .45 that had been a gift from Jim years before, and a Beretta 9mm, cleaned them, made sure he had spare ammo, and stashed them both away in the pack, but at a place he could get to them easily if he needed to. He made sure his tablet computer was charging, as well as his iPod, and

  went to bed.

  At midnight, glancing out the window of the stateroom, he noted that Jim and Misty were no longer on the deck, but a light burned inside the houseboat. He wondered if Jim had gone home, but put the thought aside.

  In minutes he was asleep.

  18

  Derek stepped out of the plane on the tarmac at Guantanamo Bay. He had been to Gitmo two other times and wasn’t happy to be back. The military base was one thing, but the detention camp was something else entirely. It had been set up by the Bush administration post-9/11 to hold captive terrorists or other prisoners related to the then-called Global War on Terror. Some lawyers in the Bush administration had the happy idea that by holding them on a U.S. military base in Cuba, they wouldn’t be subject to the Geneva Convention or any other American rules of law.

  As someone who had spent most of his career in the military, intelligence, or some other areas of government, Derek didn’t think much of that line of reasoning. And neither had the international courts.

  There was a time, Derek reflected, when American soldiers, if captured, could expect to be treated by those conventions. But if the U.S. government kept finding exceptions for treating other captives, there was very little argument to be made that America had any moral authority, much less precedent, for foreign governments to treat captive Americans in a humane fashion.

  The counter argument, one held by a number of military people Derek knew, was that these terrorists weren’t going to follow the Geneva Convention anyway, so why should they expect special treatment.

  It was an eye for an eye all over again, he thought.

  Over time the U.S. government realized they had a tiger by the tail. Many of the countries’ governments these prisoners came from didn’t want them back either and refused to take them. The American people refused to allow them to be released onto U.S. soil. Or in some cases, even tried on U.S. soil, at least if you followed the prevailing winds, which of course, politicians do.

  So there they sat, awaiting some sort of trial that might never happen, death, or suicide. Meanwhile, politicians made promises they couldn’t or wouldn’t keep.

  The whole situation made Derek’s stomach churn.

  A marine in uniform met him. “I’m Sergeant Dorchester, sir. You are Dr. Derek Stillwater?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m to take you to Captain Wilshire, who will brief you. How was your flight?”

  Derek had taken a military transport from Andrews Air Force Base to the Naval Air Station Pensacola, then caught a flight to Cuba. They were military flights, so they were a little bare bones, but he said, “Fine.”

  “This way, sir.” He led Derek to a waiting Humvee and away they went. It was a beautiful Cuban day, breezy and sunny, around eighty degrees. Donning his sunglasses, ‘Derek savored the sun and s
ea breeze. When he had briefly worked for the CIA he had gone undercover in Cuba for a couple days. It had ended disastrously and he had escaped the island with a stolen kayak. Still, until everything went to hell, he had liked Cuba.

  “What happened to your arm?” Dorchester asked.

  “Firefight,” Derek said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Where?”

  Derek smiled. “Can’t say.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re with State.”

  “True as well. Funny world, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Dorchester gave him a brief tour, pointing out what they were passing as they drove by. “There’s the hospital. There’s the theater. There’s McDonald’s.”

  “I’ve been here before,” Derek said.

  “Oh. Sorry, sir.”

  “Not a problem. How long have you been here, Sergeant?”

  “Six months.”

  “Like it?”

  “I like the weather.”

  Derek laughed. “Yeah, I can see that. First tour?”

  “No. I’ve done tours in Iraq, Afghanistan and South Korea.”

  “So Gitmo’s probably not too bad.”

  “Like I said, I like the weather.”

  Dorchester pulled the Hummer in front of a building and Dorchester said, “Sign in at security and someone will take you to Captain Wilshire.”

  They shook hands and Derek climbed out with his Go Packs and entered. A marine who must have stood six-foot-eight slouched behind a desk. He asked for Derek’s identification, which he supplied, along with a document supplied by the State Department. Derek checked his bags, although he retrieved his tablet computer.

  Ten minutes later he found himself in a small but tidy office. It was functional, not glamorous, but had a window that looked out at the mountains. Captain Steve Wilshire looked to be in his forties and appeared mild-mannered enough, with short-cropped ash-blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses with a slight tint.

  “Have a seat, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m not completely clear on who you are and why you’re here.”

  “I’m attached to the State Department and I’m here to question one of your prisoners, Abdul—”

  “Nazif. Yes. What does ‘attached to State’ mean?”

  Derek cocked his head. “I am a troubleshooter for Homeland Security, but for the last year or so I have been on loan to the State Department, affiliated with the INR, but answering directly to Secretary Mandalevo.”

  “I see. And you are an experienced interrogator?”

  They looked at each other unflinchingly. Derek said, “By ‘experienced interrogator,’ do you mean have I been trained by the military in enhanced interrogation techniques?”

  “That is partly what I’m asking.”

  “No, I have not. What is the other part of what you’re asking, Captain?”

  “Well, Doctor … ”

  Derek leaned forward and put just a little bit of edge into his voice. “And just so we’re on somewhat similar footing, Captain, I retired from the Army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. Special Forces.”

  Captain Wilshire nodded as if that was useful information. “I appreciate that. However, it is not quite where I am going with this. I wish to understand your purpose here.”

  Voice low, Derek said, “You wish to know whether I’m conducting some sort of investigation into how you’re treating prisoners.”

  Wilshire’s expression was blank, but he nodded. “That’s a start.”

  “No, I’m not. Here’s what I’m doing here, and there’s only so much I can tell you. But during the course of an operation in Syria, I encountered Abdul Nazif’s brother and nephew. It was not a positive encounter and I am developing as much intelligence as possible as I can about the brother, whose name is Sheikh Hussein Nazif. He is the head of an al-Qaeda splinter cell currently operating in Syria, but not exclusively in Syria. And that is all you need to know. I would like to read your files on Abdul Nazif and I would like to speak to him.”

  Wilshire shook his head. “I see that you have the appropriate security clearance, but I’m not sure you understand what it means to read his files.”

  “Educate me.”

  “We have thousands of pages of interrogation recordings.”

  “Indexed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, provide me some personal background and access to the index.” He glanced at his watch. “I had hoped to finish this in one day, but it’s probably not going to happen, is it?”

  “No. It would take weeks to read them thoroughly. There are people at the Pentagon and Langley who are doing that. Otherwise, I’ll find you a place to stay and an office. I’ll make arrangements for you to speak to the prisoner tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. Have you met Abdul Nazif?”

  “Yes. I have interviewed him personally several times.”

  “Then perhaps after I’m done going through the files I can buy you a drink.”

  For a moment Wilshire looked blankly at him, then smiled. “Or two.”

  “Or two.”

  They supplied him with a cubicle and a computer and temporary access to Gitmo’s intranet and database. A muscular woman with dark hair, dark eyes and bee-stung lips walked him through how to access the specific records he was looking for and an overview of how they were organized. She had the bony, fat-less face of a dedicated bodybuilder and the shoulders and thighs to match. Once he got the hang of the database and had a cup of black coffee at his elbow, she lumbered away, probably to pump some iron or lift Jeeps.

  Finding the overview was straightforward. Abdul Nazif was forty-five years old. He had been born in Cairo and received a degree in chemical engineering at Cairo University. During college he joined the Muslim Brotherhood, which wasn’t exactly unusual in that there were about two million members worldwide. They were reactionary, however, and as Derek knew, somewhat interchangeable with Hamas, at least as far as Islamist terror support went.

  He sipped his coffee and read on. Nazif had served in the Egyptian military for three years in the infantry. Afterwards he went to school and came out, tried to find a job as a chemical engineer, but got caught, like many in Egypt, in a crippling economy. Apparently members of the Muslim Brotherhood and Hamas found his expertise quite useful for bomb making and recruited him. He drifted from Egypt to Palestine, became even more radicalized, spent time in Afghanistan with the Taliban, then in Iraq, where he was captured by American forces.

  He had been at Gitmo for six years.

  Derek spent most of the rest of the day dipping in and out of Nazif’s files. He reflected that from his perspective, Nazif told them a lot without actually telling them anything. If the transcripts were any indication, they used many different techniques to get him to tell them things of interest. The majority of it seemed to be a nice-guy approach, with the interrogators spending weeks, even months, trying to build rapport. There wasn’t a great deal of carrot-and-stick, at least not where he was seeing it. Mostly carrots: if you tell us who your contact with al-Qaeda is, you’ll get certain privileges; if you tell us about the Hamas infrastructure, you’ll get more yard time; if you tell us how you stayed in touch with each other, you’ll get better food; if you tell us, you get to watch TV …

  As far as Derek could tell from reading transcripts and reports, Abdul Nazif was a true believer. He spoke heatedly and consistently of The Great Satan and The Usurpers, specifically referring to the United States, although sometimes he spoke of The West in general, occasionally of his hatred for the Egyptian military. Derek thought that was interesting. He went hunting for information regarding any specific incident during his military service that would have pushed him toward militant Islam. He didn’t find anything. He wrote a note to check on that.

  In general, the U.S. military had a good relationship with the Egyptian military, although the entire Arab Spring revolution in Egypt had strained it. Much of
the upper echelon in the Egyptian Army had been trained by the U.S. Military. The U.S.’s primary allies in the Middle East were Israel, Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia, although Saudi’s help was primarily financial.

  Derek wasn’t an expert on the Middle East and he had not served in the military in over a decade. His expertise was primarily in counter-terrorism, and had focused mostly on investigating potential biological and chemical terror attacks in the U.S. It had required him to be conversant with Middle Eastern terror groups, but not necessarily an expert on the region’s politics.

  He did gather that Abdul identified himself as a Sunni. There was some material on family, but not much. There was mention of his brother Hussein, but no particular depth to it other than to indicate he was one of five brothers and three sisters.

  A rumble of his stomach indicated it was time to take a break. He wandered around on his own for a while until he found the mess hall. With a tray of food, he found a table next to a window that overlooked a white sand beach and the blue of the Gulf. He had barely begun eating when a woman in Navy whites appeared by his table carrying a tray. Tall, slender and blonde, Derek guessed her age to be in her thirties or well-preserved forties. Rank insignia indicated a Captain.

  “Are you Dr. Derek Stillwater?”

  Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Yes. But who are you?”

  “Captain Nora Bradley. May I join you?”

  He gestured for her to sit. She settled across from him. “Captain Wilshire suggested I find you. You weren’t in your cubicle. A little detective work found you asking about where the mess was. There’s a Subway and a McDonald’s on base, too.”

  “This is quite a disappointment. I was hoping you came to sit down with me because I’m devastatingly handsome.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  He sighed. “The mess is fine. What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “Nora is fine, Doctor.”

  “Okay. Derek is fine with me, too. Why does Captain Wilshire want you to talk to me?”

  “I’m a psychological advisor for the interrogation units.”

  “You’re a psychologist?”