ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE
A KYLE DAWSON NOVEL
PETER EICHSTAEDT
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE
Political extremism involves two prime ingredients: an excessively simple diagnosis of the world’s ills, and a conviction that there are identifiable villains back of it all.
—John W. Gardner, 1912-2002, American educator, former US Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, founder of Common Cause and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.
Chapter 1
Tariq stared at the camera. I will do this.
Hot wind swept across the desert, pushing against him, rippling his black cotton shirt and blousy pants. A black scarf encircled his head, exposing only his dark eyes.
Two nine-millimeter automatic pistols hung loosely at his sides, each in a brown leather holster dangling from shoulder straps. A knife in his left hand, he felt invincible.
I was born to jihad. I have known that since I was very young.
Tariq put his right hand on the shaved head of the American journalist who knelt at his feet, a knee against the bound man’s back. The journalist wore orange prison garb, mimicking the men in Guantanamo who Tariq considered his brothers in global jihad.
They stopped me from going to Somalia to join al-Shabaab. They stopped me from marrying the woman of my dreams. They wanted me to betray my Muslim brothers. They will suffer and pay for their arrogance.
Tariq glanced pitifully down at the journalist’s pale skin and scruffy beard, the hands bound behind his back.
The prisoners call us the Beatles because we are British. But, we are not British. We were born on sacred Arab soil, then raised among the infidels. It was not of our choosing. The others say we are not true jihadis. But they lie. I will show them what a true jihadi does. They will tremble in awe.
Tariq lifted his eyes to the camera, drew a breath, and began to talk, his voice deep and resolute, muffled by the scarf. “I’m back, President Harris, and I’m back because of your arrogant foreign policy towards the Islamic state.”
Tariq pointed the blade at the camera.
“You continue to bomb our people despite our serious warnings. You, President Harris, have nothing to gain from your actions but the death of another American. Just as your missiles continue to strike our people, our knives will continue to strike the necks of your people. You, President Harris, with your actions, have killed another American citizen.”
Tariq waved his knife.
“This is also a warning to those governments that enter an evil alliance with America against the Islamic State to back off and leave our people alone.”
Bracing his knee against the journalist’s back, he grabbed the man’s chin with his right hand and pulled up, exposing and stretching the throat. Tariq’s stomach knotted. His heart pounded.
Do it! Do it!
With a furious burst, Tariq drew the thick blade across the American’s neck, the blade biting , unleashing a torrent of blood spilling over the man’s chest.
Moments later, Tariq’s hands shook, his body pulsating with the pounding of his heart.
Calm yourself. This is for the glory of Allah.
The eyes of the American were empty, lifeless. He bent over the body to finish the job. He rolled the American’s body onto its back and placed the severed head on the chest. He stood back to inspect his work. He exhaled, the task complete, his hands still shaking.
“How does it look?” Tariq asked the jihadi behind the video camera.
“Excellent,” the jihadi said. “God is great.”
“That will show the American infidels that we are serious,” Tariq said. “God willing, they will all die if they try to defeat us.”
Another jihadi handed Tariq a bucket of water and a rag. “Tariq, you are destined to be the face and the voice of all jihad.”
“In’shallah,” Tariq said. He dipped the knife and his hands into the water and washed, turning the water a deep pink.
Chapter 2
At the fitness club south of Santa Fe, New Mexico, Kyle Dawson hovered, his hands poised just above the wide, chromed bar that held 265 pounds in iron weights. On the bench below him was Raoul Garcia, whose face was taut and red. Raoul lowered the bar to his chest, held it a moment, then groaned as he pushed it back up, fully extending his arms.
Doubting he could hold the bar if Raoul’s arms gave out, Kyle gripped it and guided it to the rack. The bar clunked into place.
Raoul exhaled noisily through puffed cheeks and stared up at Kyle.
“One more? Just one more?” Kyle coaxed, envious of Raoul’s build and bulk.
“Remember,” Raoul said, “you’re next.”
His face beaded with sweat, Raoul sucked in a couple of quick breaths as Kyle helped him ease the bar up and off the rack. Exhaling slowly, Raoul lowered the bar to within an inch of his chest, then struggled to push it back up. His elbows bent, his muscled arms quivering, the bar stopped moving upward.
Kyle grabbed it and strained, providing just enough lift for Raoul to get it back onto the rack. His armed splayed, Raoul panted and growled, “Holy mother of God.” He sat up and massaged his triceps.
“They’ve got a gym up there at Vista Verde, don’t they?” Kyle asked.
“They got every damned thing,” Raoul said. “That’s how we keep the trainees occupied. They’re working out every day, twice a day.”
“Must get boring.”
“It’s a lot of things, but it’s never boring,” Raoul said. “Most days, I feel like a drill
sergeant. But it’s a damned paycheck, so I can’t complain.”
“A damned good paycheck, from what I understand,” Kyle said.
“They want me to work overseas again,” Raoul said, his words hanging in the air.
“Let me guess. You told them you’d had enough of Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“I’ve been lucky, Kyle.” Raoul tapped each arm and leg. “I’ve still got my limbs. I know too many guys who don’t. After a while, you wonder how many lives you have left.”
“So, what do they want you to do? Or can’t you talk about it?”
“Green zone security. Baghdad.”
“At least it’s not night raids hunting for hajjis.”
“Been there, done that,” Raoul said with a shake of his head. “I’ve got Miguel and Viviana to think about.” He gazed at Kyle. “But family never stopped you, did it?”
That stung. Kyle swallowed hard, but Raoul was right. He’d spend the past dozen years moving from one war zone to another as a correspondent for the Washington Herald. A year each in Afghanistan and Iraq, mixed with stops in the Congo, Kenya, and Somalia.
But now he was back in Santa Fe where he’d started. His son Brandon was in the Santa Fe Little League and his daughter Erica was a standout on her high school freshman soccer team. He was seeing his kids regularly, no longer the absentee father who occasionally talked to them on Skype from parts unknown.
“How’s Miguel doing, anyway?” Kyle asked.
“He’s finishing his freshman year at UNM,” Raoul said. “Came through with a 2.7 grade average first semester. Not bad, but I know he could do better.”
“The first year is always tough,” Kyle said.
Raoul shook his head. “He’s got a girlfriend, already. I think he spends too much time with her.”
“That can be a good thing,” Kyle said. “Keeps him out of the bars.”
Raoul stood and massaged his shoulders. “She’s Iranian. Drop dead beautiful.”
“What’s her name?”
“Aliyah Muhadi.”
“How did that happen?”
“Like it always does. Boy meets girl.”
Kyle nodded. “Hmmm.”
“Her father’s a scientist,” Raoul continued. “Fled the Ayatollah Khamenei. Now works at Sandia Laboratories in Albuquerque.”
“Probably his reward for telling the CIA all he knows about the Iranian nukes.”
“Probably.”
“Physicist?”
Raoul shrugged.
“Does Miguel have a roommate?” Kyle asked.
Raoul nodded, drying his hands with a small towel. “A kid from the north.”
“The north? As in northern New Mexico?”
“Yeah. Smart kid. Carlito.”
Kyle nodded. “That’s good.”
“Yes and no,” Raoul said.
“What does that mean?”
“The kid’s a Muslim.”
“What? Carlito? A Muslim? Everyone in northern New Mexico is Roman Catholic. Santuario de Chimayo and all that. Easter pilgrimage. People walking all the way up there from Albuquerque.”
“I know,” Raoul said. “The way Miguel explains it, Carlito hooked up with some people at a mosque over there in Abiquiu.”
“There’s a Benedictine monastery in the north. Christ in the Desert, it called. So, what’s with the mosque?”
“That’s all I know Kyle.”
Kyle stared across the weight and workout room and out through the windows, remembering his first big story in northern New Mexico. He’d worked for the Santa Fe daily newspaper back then. It seemed like ages ago. “I knew a kid named Carlito from the north,” Kyle said slowly. “I wonder if it’s the same one. His father was shot and killed by the state police. I was there. The kid saw the whole thing.”
“Shot and killed?” Raoul asked. “What the hell was going on?”
His mind swimming in a sea of memories, Kyle shook his head and focused on Raoul. “It was a land grant protest. It got real ugly.”
“I guess so.” Raoul pointed to the bench. “Your turn, buddy.”
Kyle drew a deep breath, then glanced at one of several flat-screen televisions hanging on the wall. He lifted a hand. “Hold on.”
The face of CNN’s Anderson Cooper, cropped white hair and black rimmed glasses, filled the screen. “CNN has just learned that the Islamic state has released a video depicting the beheading of what appears to be American photo journalist Nathan Kennard,” Cooper said. A grab shot of a man wearing an orange prison jump suit filled the screen. The man was on his knees, his arms tied behind his back, in front of a figure clad in black.
“The executioner in the video,” Cooper continued, “who intelligence officials are calling Jihadi John, says that the killing of the journalist is in retaliation for US air strikes against Muslim extremists of the Islamic state, a territory carved out of portions of Syria and Iraq.”
Cooper’s face was replaced by another slightly blurred shot of the black-clad executioner pointing his knife at the camera, his voice barely audible in the blowing wind. “Intelligence officials in the UK and the US are analyzing the voice on the video in hopes of positively identifying the killer.”
Kyle stared, his mouth agape, his stomach knotted. “That’s Nate,” he groaned, clenching his jaw as he stared at Raoul. “We worked together in Afghanistan.”
His arms folded across his chest, Raoul shook his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ animals.”
“Nate went to Syria because no one was buying photos about the war in Afghanistan anymore,” Kyle said.
“He jumped from the frying pan into the fire,” Raoul said.
“They killed him, Raoul!” Kyle said, his throat tight, his voice rising. “They cut his head off!” He looked at Raoul with wide, angry eyes. His mind roiling, Kyle shook his head slowly, and still clenching his jaw, settled onto the bench. “Take a couple fifties off the bar,” Kyle said. “I can’t lift like you.” As Raoul removed some of the plates, Kyle stared at the overhead lighting, his head filled with images of Nate’s moments before his death. Kyle shook his arms to warm them.
“One seventy five,” Raoul said. “You can handle that.”
Kyle gripped the bar, and with a grunt, lifted it off the rack, his arms straining against the weight, his mind swirling with thoughts of Nate Kennard. He slowly lowered the bar to his chest, drew a deep breath, and groaning loudly, pushed the bar upwards, once, twice, then a third and fourth time before his arms began to burn.
“C’mon,” Raoul said, staring down at Kyle’s face. “One more.”
Kyle lowered the bar to his chest, then sucked in a breath and emitted a loud “ahhhhgggh,” as he pushed the bar upwards, his arms fully extended. He let the bar drop into the rack and stared at the overhead lights, his chest tight with anger.
Chapter 3
That evening, his face lighted by the glow of laptop screen, Kyle sat at the heavy wooden dining table that doubled as his writing desk. He scoured the internet for stories of how and why his friend and photo journalist Nate Kennard had been captured, despite the gnawing suspicion he already knew the answers. Information was coming to light from other journalists who were in and around the area at the time.
Kennard had been with a British freelance reporter named Eric McCovey, on assignment for the London Telegraph. McCovey had been writing about the weapons flowing to the Kurds and other Syrian rebels fighting the forces of Syrian President Bashir al-Assad.
Kennard and McCovey had stopped to file stories and photos at an internet café at a small town inside northern Syria and near the border with Turkey. They apparently figured it was safe since they were in rebel-held territory— certainly safer than the areas held by the Assad regime, whose police and army arrested and imprisoned journalists.
Kyle knew the Syrian rebels were a mixed bag.
He’d been in Syria briefly and now tracked the war there from afar. The civil war had begun as a popular uprising in the spring of 2011 with short-lived, pro-democracy demonstrations. Assad responded brutally, as he had in the past, using his secret police and their ruthless military tactics. Civilian militias had formed for self-protection and within months morphed into the Free Syrian Army. Most western powers, especially the US, weary of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, had hoped Assad would fall quickly and cleanly. But Russia stepped in to prop up Assad, one dictatorship helping another, and as Syria’s civil war dragged on, the popular uprising degenerated into chaos.
Kyle knew most news organizations kept their staff out of the mayhem and relied on Syrian reporters. Only a handful of foreign freelancers ventured into the fray, praying they’d make it out alive, but knowing their exclusive stories and photos commanded top dollar.
What made Syria more deadly than most war zones were the fundamentalist jihadis who had coalesced around a man named Abu al-Bakar. The man was an Iraqi religious scholar, a part-time Islamic fighter, and had served time in a US prison in Iraq. When the US pulled out of Iraq, al-Bakar and his followers became the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria, or ISIS.
Al-Bakar took advantage of the chaos and sent his fanatics into rebel-held towns and provinces, hanging people, mutilating women and children, and cutting off heads. ISIS grew exponentially, seizing Syrian oil fields and selling oil on the black market, much of it to Turkey. Flush with cash and weapons, ISIS demanded absolute obedience to its brand of oppressive Islam. They weren’t alone. Other competing Islamic fundamentalist groups like the al-Nusra Front, an al-Qaeda affiliate, joined the fray, turning the territory in hell on earth.
Kyle’s felt sick as the accounts of Kennard’s and McCovey’s capture raised more questions than they answered. One said after Kennard and McCovey had filed their stories and photos and had left the internet café near the Syrian border that day, their translator flagged down a taxi driver to take them to the small guest room where they’d stayed the night before to retrieve their bags.
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