House of War

by Scott Mariani

  The Jeep rolled to a halt. Charlie waved towards the house and said, ‘Right up there, bud. He’s waitin’ for ya.’

  Ben got out. The Jeep pulled a tight U-turn around him, throwing up spumes of sand, then roared back off down the track leaving him standing there alone. Four thousand miles from Paris, Ben had finally reached the island hideaway of the reclusive Tyler Roth.

  Chapter 32

  As Ben climbed the sandy wooden steps up to the house, he could hear the ocean’s steady roar and the crash of the waves breaking against the rocks below. And something else. The soft, melodic notes of a Spanish guitar drifting on the wind. He stepped up onto the wooden walkway that led around the side of the house to the decking, following the music.

  The decking was bathed in warm light from the windows. Roth was sitting on a stool with his back to Ben, facing the ocean with the guitar cradled in his lap. Playing it well, with the practised air of a man who had a lot of time to devote to becoming proficient, and a depth of melancholic expression that Ben found surprising in a professional warrior whom he’d last seen with an automatic weapon in his hands. Roth seemed lost in the music, as though unaware of his visitor’s presence. A tall cocktail stood on a low table nearby, along with an ashtray in which rested a long, fat cigarette that hadn’t come from a packet. The faint tang of marijuana reached Ben’s nose.

  At the sound of Ben’s footsteps on the wooden decking he stopped playing and turned to face his visitor.

  ‘Hey, man. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Hello, Tyler.’

  Roth laid down the instrument, stood and stepped towards Ben with a broad grin and an extended hand. He’d changed a good deal in sixteen years. Leaner than he’d been in his Delta Force days, when he and his men had spent all their down time pumping iron. His military buzz cut was grown out well past his shoulders, into a mass of sandy curly hair that was starting to turn silver and loosely drawn back into an untidy ponytail. He was barefoot, in ragged jeans cut off at the knee and a well-worn T-shirt that said BEACH BUM.

  They shook hands. Roth said, ‘You want a beer? Or something with a little more punch, maybe.’ He motioned back at the cocktail on the table. ‘They got a drink on St Thomas called a Painkiller. Rum, pineapple, coconut, orange juice and a hint of fresh grated nutmeg. I just made up a batch. Heavy on the rum, blows your mind.’

  Ben had already swallowed enough painkillers for one day. ‘I’m good, thanks, Tyler. I came four thousand miles to talk, not to drink.’

  Roth shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No problemo, amigo mio, whatever you say. I appreciate you coming all this way to see me. Don’t get a whole lot of visitors to the island.’

  ‘It might have been easier to talk by phone. I was a little busy to just drop everything.’

  With a grin, Roth replied, ‘Sorry, man. Not an option. No phone, no email, not that I get any cellphone reception out here. It’s hardly even safe to talk face to face any more. Fucking NSA got their surveillance drones everywhere these days. Privacy comes at a premium, and you’re looking at it.’ He spread his arms wide and beamed up at the heavens.

  Ben wondered if Roth hadn’t gone a bit crazy in his retirement. Maybe the marijuana and the rum cocktails weren’t helping. Or maybe that was the whole idea and everyone else was playing a fool’s game.

  ‘Keegan tells me you’re out of the loop. How long have you been living here?’

  ‘Oh, a while, I guess. Not much to keep me in Bowie County, Texas, any more. Not since the last Mrs Roth took herself out of my life. Bitch. Anyhow, decided after that I was done risking my ass for strangers. I’d put by a bunch of money, enough to last me out, if I don’t go too nuts with it. So here we are, just me and the cat, a case of rum and my old geetar. I like it. It’s kinda peaceful.’

  ‘I can resonate with that,’ Ben said. ‘Who doesn’t enjoy a little peace, when we get the chance?’

  Roth smiled. ‘But you didn’t come here to inquire into the state of my health and happiness, did you? You got your own agenda, and it’s important enough to drop everything and come all the way here from …?’

  ‘Paris,’ Ben said. ‘France, not Texas.’

  ‘Paris, France. I always wanted to go there.’

  ‘You missed the best days. It isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘Story of my life, bro. Ain’t that true of the whole world now? Going to hell, all of us. Faster than we think.’

  ‘Nazim al-Kassar is alive,’ Ben said.

  At the mention of that name, Roth’s demeanour instantly changed. One moment he was the amiable and relaxed beach bum that his T-shirt proclaimed him to be; the next he was as focused as a hunting timber wolf and wearing his implacable old Delta face. ‘That’s an interesting piece of information. That the reason you came here, to tell me that?’

  ‘You don’t seem too surprised,’ Ben said. ‘Considering your government seemed so sure that they’d taken him out three years ago.’

  The ocean wind was picking up and becoming blustery. Heavy black clouds had been rolling in from the west while they talked, and now the first fat raindrop hit the decking with a thud, soon followed by another.

  ‘Looks like we got some weather coming in,’ Roth said. ‘Let’s go talk inside.’

  He gathered up his drink, ashtray and guitar and led Ben through one of the big sliding windows into the house as the rain started hammering down with sudden violence. The furnishings were modern and comfortable. A large L-shaped sofa took up the best part of two walls, with a giant TV screen opposite. The pictures were all of wavy palm trees and ocean sunsets. Nothing anywhere to hint at Roth’s military past.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, man,’ Roth said, propping the guitar in a corner. He flopped down on the sofa, and Ben sat across from him. The incoming squall slapped the windows like crackling fire and the wind shook the house.

  ‘Those things come out of nowhere,’ Roth said.

  ‘A bit like certain ghosts from the past, just when you’d started to forget about them.’

  ‘You don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Do you?’ Ben asked him.

  Roth chuckled. ‘You spend enough time out here alone, you could start to believe in just about anything. But Nazim al-Kassar coming back from the dead? That’s a big deal, my friend. Especially to guys like you and me, who saw with our own eyes what that motherfucker was capable of.’

  ‘What’s the current official line?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m just a retired army veteran. I don’t have those kinds of contacts.’

  ‘Come on, Tyler. You and I both know that once you get in that deep, you’re a member for life. And you were in the game even longer than I was.’

  Roth smiled. ‘The official line remains what it was back in 2016, namely that a 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit Harrier squadron deployed from the USS Boxer in the Persian Gulf on August 21 as part of Operation Inherent Resolve, and iced al-Kassar’s piece of shit ass six miles northwest of Ramadi, along with nine other ISIL commanders with whom he was meeting. Delta had boots on the ground just minutes later and confirmed that al-Kassar was among the dead.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘If they made a positive ID, then he’s got an identical twin.’

  ‘Actually, the ID was made from a piece of his right ear. That was the only bit of the fucker they could find still intact among the ruins of the house.’

  ‘Nice job,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing like reliable intelligence.’

  ‘You said it, amigo. But why should I believe yours?’

  Ben took out Romy Juneau’s phone, scrolled up the video file, and tossed the phone to Roth. ‘Because it’s not a piece of his right ear that’s walking around killing people.’

  Roth fell silent as he watched the video clip. ‘There ain’t much to see here, man.’

  ‘There will be. Keep watching. I’ll give you a clue. The man on the left.’

  Roth’s face tightened into a hard frown as he did. A muscle twitched in his jaw
.

  ‘Still think I’m seeing ghosts?’ Ben asked.

  Roth had watched enough. He tossed the phone back to Ben. ‘That’s our boy, all right. One hundred per cent, no question. Where was this footage taken?’

  ‘Tripoli,’ Ben said. ‘Just days ago.’

  ‘Small world,’ Roth said. He was referring to one of the high points in his Delta career, the takedown of the al-Qaeda operative Abu Anas al-Libi.

  ‘His last known sighting was Paris. As far as I know, he’s still in France, but I have no way to find him.’

  ‘And you thought I could help?’

  ‘I’m on my own here, Tyler.’

  Roth nodded. ‘All right. I can tell you that not everyone on the Delta team was confident of making a positive ID on the remains. Personally, I’d figured on fifty-fifty, tops, that it was our guy.’

  ‘Not too solid a basis for the White House to issue a formal confirmation.’

  Roth gave a shrug. ‘I wasn’t totally comfortable with the official story. Now I’m even less so, for obvious reasons. But certain people high up wouldn’t want to lose face by admitting claims of his demise were exaggerated.’

  ‘They might not have a choice.’

  Roth pointed at the phone in Ben’s hand. ‘Tell me about the other asshole. The guy on the right.’

  Ben told Roth what he knew about Julien Segal’s involvement. He described what had happened to Romy, Thierry’s efforts to extract some meaning from the video soundtrack, his meeting with Françoise Schell and the attack on the café, and how the search for Segal had so far come to a dead end.

  Roth was hanging onto every word of Ben’s story. ‘You think they’ve got the wife?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for four thousand miles. My guess is, al-Kassar and his people are holding her to use as leverage against Julien Segal. Whatever they’re up to, it’s something big and they’re obviously cagey about trusting him, after what happened with his assistant. And I’d say the feeling must be mutual. He’s probably just as terrified of them as Romy was. Especially now they’re threatening his wife.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Roth agreed. ‘Which suggests that he still has some role to play in all of this. He makes one false move, tries to cut and run, the hostage gets it. Classic ISIL tactics. But the big question is, what the hell are they planning? Something that scared the shit out of that poor woman. So it all hangs on your guy, what’s his name, Thierry? Because if we could hear what these pricks are talking about …’

  ‘I’m not optimistic,’ Ben said. ‘He’s getting nowhere.’

  ‘And you’re running out of options. If he screws up or there’s nothing there to begin with, you’ve got squat. Which is why you came here. But what exactly did you think I could bring to the deal?’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to shed light on where al-Kassar hangs out these days.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You were Delta.’

  ‘And you were SAS.’

  ‘I’ve been out a long time,’ Ben said. ‘I left the regiment under a cloud, and they don’t forget that. Whatever contacts I once had are old and stale. Whereas you were the golden boy. I don’t believe they didn’t give you ultra-top-level clearance after you brought them Abu Anas al-Libi. Not to mention the haul of secret ISIL plans from the Deir Azzar raid.’

  Roth gave a wry smile. ‘Been checking up on me, huh?’

  ‘Hearing rumours through the grapevine is one thing. Being able to go and knock on doors is another. Don’t tell me you don’t have a toe in the water. Maybe more than one.’

  Roth made a noncommittal gesture. ‘I do know people. And those people might know something.’

  ‘Will you ask them?’

  Roth said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘You must be hungry. Let’s eat.’

  Chapter 33

  Ben sensed that he’d pushed as hard as he could for now. To be resumed. The night was young and it didn’t look as though he was going anywhere as the storm kept building outside.

  Roth hit the kitchen with vigour, clattering pots and pans and whistling loudly to himself. Before long the mouth-watering aroma of grilled fish began to permeate the house, and a few minutes later he emerged carrying a tray with two heaped plates on it. ‘Red snapper with lemon and okra,’ he announced proudly. ‘Can’t visit Savana Island without tasting some real Caribbean chow. You want to grab us some vino from the refrigerator?’

  The wine was a California Pinot Grigio. Ben pulled a face when he saw it, but he was prepared to put aside his prejudices. They sat down at a small table to eat. Roth uncorked the bottle and poured brimming glasses with relish.

  ‘You’re quite the chef,’ Ben said, tasting the fish. The wine was surprisingly good, too, and chilled to perfection.

  ‘Try some of the escovitch sauce,’ Roth said. ‘Look out for the Scotch Bonnet slices, though. They kick some serious ass, but I can’t resist ’em.’

  ‘Scotch Bonnets I can handle,’ Ben said. He chewed the end off one and it was like swallowing a white phosphorus grenade mid-blast. Roth seemed to enjoy watching him struggle with it.

  They ate in silence as the howling gale shuddered the windows and seemed to want to tear the house off the side of the cliff. Ben had forgotten how hungry he was and devoured every scrap, hot peppers and all. The Pinot went down all too smoothly and the level in the bottle descended fast. When it was finished, Roth fetched another from the fridge. He refilled their glasses, leaned back in his seat and lit up another marijuana joint. ‘Want some of this shit?’ he asked. Ben declined, and took out his Gauloises and Zippo.

  Roth sucked down a few puffs, then shook his head as though deep in thought and eyed Ben curiously.

  ‘Gotta ask you something, man. Iraq was a long fuckin’ time ago. What makes going after Nazim al-Kassar such a big deal to you after all these years? Your life’s moved on.’

  ‘And Romy Juneau’s life came to a rather sudden end,’ Ben said, as he bathed the tip of his Gauloise in orange flame.

  Roth took another puff and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘People get killed, bro. Ain’t fair or right, but it’s always happened and it always will. You barely even knew this woman.’

  ‘She’s not the only innocent person he’s harmed. He’ll go on doing it until he’s stopped.’

  ‘True, but then again you’re not the only one scoping for the motherfucker. Sooner or later someone will take him down. But that’s not good enough for you, is it?’

  Ben was quiet for a long moment. Then said, ‘Samara.’

  Roth raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s she?’

  Ben replied, ‘Just someone I knew.’

  ‘Someone Nazim hurt?’

  Ben said nothing.

  Roth blew more smoke and shrugged. ‘Whatever, man. Everybody’s got their axe to grind. In my case, it’s Carter, Tennant and Lake. My three Delta guys who died in the firefight that day.’

  ‘I thought only two were killed.’

  Roth shook his head sadly. ‘Carter and Tennant were KIA right on the scene. They didn’t deserve to buy the farm, but at least it was a merciful end. Gene Lake was one of the wounded we casevaced out. Poor bastard caught one in the liver. Took him nearly four months to die in agony. I was there, with his wife Sally and their three kids, when he finally passed. Long as I live, I’ll never forget the looks on their faces.’

  ‘Some things you can’t forget,’ Ben said.

  Roth nodded. ‘And some things you can’t forgive. You think the rage will pass, but it don’t. I’ll never stop hating those fanatical sons of bitches.’

  ‘ISIL?’

  ‘All of them. The whole rotten bunch.’ Roth’s eyes blazed. ‘These people are savages, right out of the Dark Ages.’

  ‘That’s what Françoise Schell said, too.’

  ‘And she was a smart lady. It doesn’t hurt to listen to smart people once in a while, Ben. There ain’t a lot of them around. And very few folks willing to hear the truth.’

>   ‘The truth?’ Ben said.

  ‘The politicians know it, when they’re standing up and trying to persuade us over and over that Islam’s really this touchy-feely ol’ religion of peace that has nothing to do with terrorism. Half of them are only saying that because they’re shit scared they’ll spark off a freakin’ bloodbath right on their home soil. The other half are saying it because they’re in bed with the Saudis, doing deals over oil and fighter jets. Meanwhile, most people in the West still have no idea what kind of an enemy we’re up against. An enemy single-mindedly devoted to destroy the whole world in order to achieve our complete submission.’

  Ben flicked ash and took another sip of wine. ‘I don’t know about that, Tyler.’

  ‘You don’t work for the Pentagon, then. It’s been thirteen years since they assigned intelligence analysts to write a report examining what’s driving educated young Islamic men, and even some women, to commit acts of suicide and murder. Their reluctant conclusion? That the single source of these people’s motivation was the Qur’an itself. It’s not a book of religion. It’s a goddamn hate-filled recruiting pamphlet for a culture of conquest that openly glorifies violence against the infidel, and has no higher calling than that of the suicide bomber.’

  ‘Have you read the book?’ Ben asked him.

  ‘Sure I have, in three different translations as well as the original Arabic, and the hadiths and sunnah that go with it. And it oughtta scare the crap out of every freedom-loving, God-fearing tolerant Westerner who isn’t walking around with their eyes shut. Certainly scares the crap outta me.’

  ‘It doesn’t help that we invaded their countries, bombed and killed their people,’ Ben said. ‘While America led the way as usual.’

  Roth looked at him. ‘Uh, says the guy who was there and took part?’

  Ben replied, ‘I did what I did. I don’t have to be happy about it.’

  ‘Give me a break, man. We didn’t declare war on them. It’s the sole purpose and mission of Islam in its purest form to declare war on us and remove us from existence. “When you clash with the unbelieving infidels in battle, smite their necks until you overpower them, killing and wounding many of them. Thus you are commanded by Allah to continue carrying out jihad against the unbelieving infidels until they submit to Islam.” Chapter 47, verse 4.’