by Robert Gandt
The waiter arrived with the antipasti. In the background, Domingo had segued into an aria from La Boheme. Claire was watching him from across the table, smiling her little knowing half-smile.
Life is short, he reminded himself. Tonight was special. In another hour they’d be on their way to the Al Hazra where they’d be together for the next two days.
The wine was relaxing him. He felt a warm glow of contentment settle over him. Tonight he and Claire would—
The thought froze unfinished in his mind. He saw a change in Claire. Her eyes were no longer gazing at him but staring at something across the room.
Someone coming toward them.
Maxwell felt the contentment dry up inside him. He knew by the look in Claire’s eyes who it had to be.
< >
Northern Persian Gulf
From the stern of the Terya speedboat, Abu watched the burning helicopter plunge into the sea. A small sheet of flame blazed on the surface for half a minute, then extinguished. The blackened carcass of the Sikorsky slipped beneath the waves, leaving nothing but an oily splotch.
For a while no one in the boat spoke. Akhmed kept the throttles pushed all the way forward. He kept peering into the radar, then back over his shoulder where the helicopter had vanished.
Finally he said, “Killing the helicopter was bad. It means the Americans will not just retaliate. They will seek revenge.”
“So much the better,” said Abu. “Let them take their revenge on Iran.”
“They are not stupid. They will come after us.”
“Shut up,” snapped Abu. “Your task is to get this boat back into Iranian waters. Do not concern yourself with matters that are beyond your knowledge.”
Akhmed locked eyes with him for a long moment, then returned to his radar. From time to time he looked up and shot a baleful scowl at Abu.
Abu took a seat in the aft cockpit, keeping his eye on Akhmed and the others in the front. His right hand remained close to the trigger guard of his H&K MP-5 submachine gun—another item of hardware liberated from the Iranian base at Abadan.
Akhmed had become a problem. He was a Red Sea fisherman whom Al-Fasr had recruited in Yemen because of his skill with small boats. Since joining the Bu Hasa Brigade, he stayed with the Sherji from the Yemen campaign, most of whom remained loyal to Al-Fasr. When he was around Abu, Akhmed was surly and argumentative.
He had had enough of Akhmed. His usefulness was nearly over. After tonight’s mission, Abu would find a way to dispose of him.
In the distance he could see lights twinkling on the Iranian shore. Another ten or so kilometers and they would be inside Iran’s territorial waters. The demoralized Iranian navy seldom bothered to patrol their coast anymore. If they came out to intercept them with one of their decrepit patrol boats, Abu would blow them to hell with another missile.
He wondered how Omar’s mission had gone. If Omar failed and he and his Sherji were killed or captured, the whole reckless scheme would have been for nothing. It was a clumsy operation at best, leaving a trail of death that was supposed to point to Iran.
Much as he hated to admit it, Akhmed was right. The Americans weren’t stupid. Arrogant, satanic in every respect, but not stupid.
In the final analysis, he reminded himself, it didn’t matter. Whether the Americans linked the attacks to Iran was not important. They only had to be informed of the identity of their real adversary. They would know where to find him.
< >
Manama, Bahrain
Maxwell had never seen her flustered before. As a broadcast journalist Claire Phillips was trained to stay cool. Now her training left her.
“Chris? What are you. . . how did you—” she stammered, then ran out of words.
“You mean, of all the gin joints in all the world, why did I have to pick this one?” Christopher Tyrwhitt flashed a toothy grin. “One of Bogie’s greatest lines. This could be a scene right out of Casablanca, don’t you think?”
Maxwell had never met Tyrwhitt, but he recognized him from the photographs. Ruddy complexion, fading reddish beard and hair. About Maxwell’s height with a solid build, a few pounds overweight but not enough to be a pushover. He wore a lopsided, roguish grin that Maxwell guessed women found charming.
Standing at Tyrwhitt’s side was a burly, square-jawed man with a short hair cut. He kept his eyes on Maxwell, giving him a critical stare.
Maxwell felt his earlier contentment sink like a raft in a storm. Claire still wore a wide-eyed expression, her face frozen, as Tyrwhitt gave her a noisy kiss on the cheek.
Then his mood hit bottom. He heard Claire say, “Would you gentlemen please join us?”
No! he wanted say. To hell with these—
Too late. Tyrwhitt was pulling two chairs over from the adjoining table. “Let me introduce my colleague, Ted Bronson. This is my wife, Claire Phillips. And this chap, I believe, is a Yank from one of those ships in the harbor.”
Maxwell and Bronson exchanged perfunctory handshakes. Tyrwhitt didn’t bother proffering his hand.
Claire had recovered some of her composure. “Bronson?” She shook his hand and said, “Haven’t we met somewhere? At the embassy maybe? One of the press briefings?”
He didn’t blink. “Perhaps.”
She turned to Tyrwhitt. “Okay, never mind Casablanca. What are you doing here in Bahrain?”
“Just a little freelancing.”
Her eyes narrowed and she thought for a moment. She turned back to his colleague. “Bronson? Now it’s coming to me. The CIA station chief in Bahrain, right?”
“It’s possible.” Bronson’s expression didn’t change.
She looked at Tyrwhitt. “And what’s this about freelancing? Let me guess who you might be freelancing for.”
Tyrwhitt shrugged. “Everybody needs a job.”
“Sounds like the same job you had before. Are you still pretending to be a journalist?”
“Why not?” Tyrwhitt’s eyes shifted from Claire to Maxwell. “Basically, we’re all whores, right?”
A heavy silence fell over the table. Maxwell saw Claire’s face redden, and he felt a rush of anger. It occurred to him that this would an excellent time for Tyrwhitt to get his balls kicked into the next country.
He was pushing his chair away from the table when he felt Claire’s foot rap his ankle.
“Good old Chris hasn’t changed a bit,” she said, her voice mellow again. “Sensitive as ever.”
Tyrwhitt grinned back at her. “That’s me. A candidate for sainthood.”
After that, she tried to keep the conversation light while she and Maxwell pecked at their dinner and Tyrwhitt ordered more drinks. He rambled on about current events in the Middle East, how Islamic fundamentalists were threatening the stability of some of the old monarchies, including Saudi Arabia and even Bahrain. From time to time Bronson would break his own silence to correct him on a fine point.
Claire seemed to have gotten over the shock of seeing her estranged husband. She was laughing at his jokes, adding her opinions. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
Maxwell’s mood darkened. He knew little about Claire’s husband, only that he was an Australian and that his cover had been as a journalist who was sympathetic to Saddam Hussein. Not until he was shot and imprisoned by the Iraqis for spying did Claire learn that Tyrwhitt had been working for the CIA.
And, apparently, still was.
There was a lull in the conversation. Bronson looked at him and said, “And what are you doing in Bahrain, Maxwell? You’re off one of the Navy ships?”
Maxwell didn’t like the patronizing tone. He was about to tell him his job was cleaning up messes made by assholes like him and Tyrwhitt, but he saw Claire giving him a warning look.
She said, “Sam is the commanding officer of a fighter squadron on the USS Reagan.”
Bronson nodded, showing by his expression that he wasn’t impressed. He didn’t ask any more questions, which was okay with Maxwell. Bronson was like many professional intel
ligence officers he had encountered. Condescending, pushy, filled with little secrets that they would never share.
And then Maxwell had another thought. He remembered the video conference with Maria Rasmussen. And her question: Would the CIA lie to us? Good question.
“Have you been stationed in the Middle East for long?” Maxwell asked.
Bronson gave him a wary glance. “A number of years.”
“Since before Desert Storm in ’91?”
He nodded.
“Do you know anything about what happened to the Americans taken prisoner in Desert Storm?”
Bronson’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”
Tyrwhitt and Claire were both watching him now. Tyrwhitt was leaning forward, chin on his fist, a curious expression on his face.
“Just wondering,” said Maxwell, “whether you’d heard rumors about a prisoner who might still be there.”
Bronson’s face remained frozen. “As a military officer, you should know better than to discuss such things in a place like this.”
“Why? Is it classified?”
“It’s nothing I’ve ever heard of.”
“There’s a story that Saddam kept one of our pilots from the first Gulf War. Someone listed as killed in action, but in fact was alive and left behind. His name was Rasmussen.”
“Rasmussen?” Bronson scratched his chin. “No, there was never anyone like that—”
“That reminds me of someone,” interjected Tyrwhitt. “Back when I was a guest of Saddam, after the buggers shot me and patched up the holes and chucked me into Abu Graib prison. While I was there, I had a brief conversation with a chap in the cell next to mine. I’m sure he was a Yank because he—”
“Not a chance,” said Bronson sharply. Gone for an instant was the frozen expression. His eyebrows lowered over his eyes as he glowered at Tyrwhitt. “There were no American prisoners left in Iraq.” He cleared his throat, then went on in a lighter voice. “That’s an old myth that keeps popping up like those Hollywood CIA conspiracy movies. It happens after every war. We did an exhaustive search of the country after Operation Iraqi Freedom in ‘03, and I can assure you there were no living American prisoners in Iraq.”
Tyrwhitt just nodded, giving Bronson a curious look.
Maxwell watched the two men. There was a peculiar chemistry between them. Tyrwhitt was definitely not a CIA company man like Bronson. He had a big mouth, and his boss had just shut him up.
Tyrwhitt was sitting back in his seat, nodding his head, pretending to be chastised. A sly grin had crept over his face.
“Stories like that do everyone a disservice,” continued Bronson, “because they undermine the credibility of the intelligence services. And they cause unnecessary pain for relatives.”
That much was true, Maxwell thought. Maria Rasmussen and her kids didn’t need any more pain. But he didn’t mind prodding Bronson, maybe cause him a little pain. If nothing else, it might prompt him to check into the matter further. Maybe—
He became aware of another presence at the table. Someone standing behind him, and it wasn’t the waiter. He turned to see a barrel-chested man in khakis and an ugly flowered sport shirt. He had wispy red hair, and an unlit cigar was clamped in his teeth.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” said Red Boyce. He gazed around the table. “Evening, Claire. It’s good to see you again.” His eyes rested on Tyrwhitt for a moment. “Well, if it isn’t Baghdad Ben. What are you doing now that your pal Saddam is out of work?”
“Oh, I do odd jobs.” Tyrwhitt winked at Claire.
Maxwell sighed and said, “Care to join us, CAG?” Why not? Everyone else in Bahrain is.
“No, thanks. You and I are leaving.”
Maxwell felt his world getting darker. “Ah, Claire and I are planning to—”
“The helo is waiting at the fleet landing pad. We’ve got orders Baksheep.” “Baksheep” was an old Navy term. It meant “back to the ship,” and Maxwell used to think it was funny. Now it infuriated him.
He’d been in the Navy too long to say what he really thought, at least in front of civilians. The hell I’m leaving! What could be possibly be so goddamn urgent that I have to leave now?
Lots of things, actually. This was the Middle East. Boyce was giving him that look.
“How much time do we have?”
“Five minutes. My driver’s outside.”
Claire was looking at him with large, stricken eyes. It wasn’t fair, he thought. It wasn’t fair to either of them. War sucked. The Navy sucked. The whole frigging Middle East sucked.
He took a deep breath and rose from the table. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to Tyrwhitt or Bronson. Claire rose and followed him outside.
Boyce’s car, a black, unmarked Ford Crown Victoria from the fleet motor pool, waited across the street. They stood on the sidewalk, and she took his hand in hers.
“Have you ever considered another line of work, Sam?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“You’d be a good dentist. Or an accountant. You could work regular hours and be home every evening. You wouldn’t have to fly off in the night like this.”
“Good idea. I’ll tell Boyce I quit.”
The restaurant door flew open again, and Boyce appeared on the sidewalk. “Took me a minute to figure out who the other guy at the table is. That’s Bronson, the head spook in the region. What the hell’s he doing here?”
“He came in with my husband. His boss, I presume.”
Maxwell noted the “my husband.” Not ex, or former, or about-to-be split. She didn’t sound like a woman in the process of divorce.
“They probably know more about what’s going on than I do,” said Boyce.
“What is going on?” Maxwell asked.
“This is the Gulf. You can figure it out. Something’s up, and the Reagan’s hoisting anchor.”
Maxwell nodded. It had something to do with jihad. Or Al Qaeda. Or Bu Hasa. Or the villain du jour. The Axis of Evil never slept.
Boyce crossed the street and climbed into the car, giving them a moment alone.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Claire said.
“I’m always careful.” He knew it sounded brusque, but he couldn’t get over his annoyance at being plucked out of the restaurant by Boyce. But it wasn’t just leaving Claire that bothered him.
He was leaving her with Tyrwhitt.
He kissed her, then he held her for several seconds, trying to find the words to tell her what was troubling him.
They wouldn’t come. He turned and crossed the street to the waiting car. He saw her watching from the sidewalk as the Ford pulled away.
Chapter 9 — Provocation
Kuwait, northern frontier
2145, Tuesday, 16 March
The night sky lay like a canopy over the desert. On the southern horizon, Omar Al-Iryani could see the glow of the lights from Kuwait City.
Omar’s patience was dwindling. He settled himself into the depression beside the road and looked again at his watch. Ten minutes after midnight. In the darkness across the road, concealed in a narrow wadi, were the other Sherji—Ali and his two Omanis, and their prisoner.
The vehicle with the relief border guards was late. He had been assured that the Kuwaitis rotated detachments at the border outpost every night shortly after midnight. This was the only access road to the post on the border between Kuwait and Iraq.
While he waited, Omar wondered how Abu’s mission had gone. On the scale of danger, it was even more hazardous than his own assignment. Out there on the open gulf, Abu and his party were easy prey for enemy naval craft and airplanes. Why were they doing this? All to satisfy the fantasies of their commander, who was becoming a toothless tiger.
Omar didn’t know what the outcome of tonight’s action would be. He only knew that Abu, who was a holy warrior and his true leader, had ordered him to execute this mission. If death was to be the outcome, then it would be the will of Allah. He was prepared to join
the martyrs in heaven. He heard the sound of a vehicle. The low grumble of an engine.
Omar hunched down again in the depression. The dim yellow glow of headlights appeared on the road. As it approached, he could make out the low profile and wide body—an American-made HMMWV. The thing they called a Hummer. Another bauble bestowed on the fawning Kuwaitis by their American patrons.
Omar waited until the Hummer was only fifty meters away, coming toward him. In the dim light, he could see four occupants in the open-topped vehicle.
Omar opened fire. He aimed a short burst into the forward quarter of the vehicle, pinging rounds off the thick steel body.
The driver slammed on the brakes and skidded the Hummer off the road, onto the soft shoulder. The front wheels buried themselves in the deep sand, and the vehicle ground to a stop.
Perfect, thought Omar. He fired another burst, again hammering the hard metal side of the stalled vehicle.
It produced the desired effect. All four battle-dressed soldiers scuttled out and hunched down behind the Hummer. Each was fumbling with his weapon, trying to get a line of fire on his attacker.
Omar almost laughed out loud. The three guards were Kuwaiti soldiers, relief troops for one of the outposts on the border. The enlisted troops of the Kuwaiti Army came from the least privileged stratum of the oil-rich country. They were mostly young Bedouins with little education and no real skills.
The other, the one who was not fumbling with is weapon, was probably one of the American soldiers seconded to the inept Kuwaiti defense force.
From behind the Hummer came the familiar dull crackle of an automatic weapon. One of the soldiers—was it the American?— was firing at Omar’s position.
Excellent, thought Omar. An H&K MP5 submachine gun. Just like the one he held in his hands, courtesy of the Iranian Navy. The scenario was playing out just as he hoped.
Bullets were kicking up the sand around his sheltered ledge. Time to end this charade. The Hummer was equipped with a radio, and the American would be summoning help.
