Gauntlet (25 page)

Further questioning and probing by reporters during the press conference revealed that there had been more troop deaths in the Sudan, in the raid at Yarim-Dhar. This in turn led to a Sudanese complaint to the United Nations about the USA unlawfully invading its airspace, and a demand for sanctions.

When things could not possibly have gone any worse, they did. Al Jazeera received a copy of a DVD showing the interdiction of the
Mankial Star
by the
USS Cushing.
The camerawork had been skillfully done, and made good use of the image of the
USS Cushing
looming high over Yousseff’s yacht. It picked up the politeness of the banter coming from the
Mankial Star
crew, and the invitation to sit down and have tea on board the yacht. It prompted a further complaint by Pakistan, protesting the fact that the US government seemed to be waging a vendetta against one of the country’s corporations, for no apparent reason. There were protests and parades, and the usual burning of American flags in Karachi, Islamabad, and elsewhere.

Within three days of the aborted SEAL search, Congress was crying for the President’s impeachment. The President had fired the Secretary of Defense, but not before the Secretary of Defense had removed General Pershing as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Pershing had just finished demoting the Chief Admiral of the Navy. The Navy looked like fools, as did both the Pentagon and Langley. Word got out that a new super Intelligence Agency called TTIC had created the false lead in the first place. The newspapers and TV talk shows had a field day, and the late night comedians were outdoing themselves with wheelbarrows full of jokes. It was a complete and utter military, political, and Intelligence Community disaster. Had the PDB supported fonts for three-inch headlines, they would have been used over and over again.

A
PALL HAD FALLEN over the TTIC control room. At 10:30AM, three days after the
Haramosh Star
disaster, Turbee entered a room that was filled with depression, defeat, and the knowledge of their impending closure.

Dan was under pressure. There was already talk in the Congressional subcommittees that oversaw the Intelligence Community that TTIC had turned into an expensive boondoggle. Dan was getting the emails, hearing the whispers, and feeling the weight. It wasn’t good for him to be at the head of the agency that had screwed up.

“Turbee, goddamn you, you’re late,” he snarled as Turbee stumbled in the door.

Turbee ignored him and sat down, flipping on his various screens. One of his systems had the volume turned up a bit, and the boardroom could clearly hear the voice of Homer Simpson.

“Turbee, turn that shit off, and tell me why I shouldn’t shitcan you here and now!” Dan shouted.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “I really am.”

“Look at the bullshit you’ve caused. You tell us the Semtex is on one ship. It’s not there. Then you point us all in another wrong direction. The President took it in the teeth. TTIC is near death. Because you fucked up on your research, and led us all astray.” A fulminating Dan was watching his carefully crafted career, his rise to power, become thoroughly derailed by a wacko who was in love with Homer Simpson. The platinum-plated resume that his PR firm had built for him was spiraling down the toilet.

“Well, just a minute there, Dan–” Rahlson began.

“No, Rahlson. He screwed up. There was no Semtex on that ship.”

“Actually, Dan, there was,” said Turbee. “The SEAL guys just didn’t find it.”

“Excuse me?!” Dan practically screamed, now gathering a full head of steam.

“It was there, sir. It’s probably still there. The SEALs didn’t find it. The probability that it’s NOT on that ship is astronomically low. It’s got to be there. Uhh... somewhere on that ship.”

Dan drew a deep breath. He’d obviously heard enough. “That’s it Turbee, you’re done here. The Intelligence Community can do without you. You’re history. Fuck off. Pack your bags. Get out.”

“What?” asked a white-faced Turbee. “I’m sorry, Dan, you want me to go?” TTIC had been starting to look like a home to Turbee, in spite of the culture clash. Now this?

“Yes, I do. There’s the door. You’re out.”

A stunned Turbee rose slowly to his feet. He slouched toward the door, paler and thinner than he had ever been, his raccoon eyes filled with tears. Khasha noticed, as he limped out the door, that one sock was blue, the other green. She fought back a tear of her own.

“Jesus, Dan, you shouldn’t have done that,” said Rahlson. “The kid was doing his job. He’s smart. He’s just weird. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Dan made a chopping motion with his hand, cutting Rahlson off. He didn’t care what anyone else had to say about it. “This is my agency, isn’t it? It’s my decision who stays and who goes. I don’t want to hear another word.”

An angry and depressed gloom drifted through the room like dust in a desert wind. No one said much after that.

O
N THE OTHER SIDE of the world, Yousseff was relaxing on one of the upper balconies of his Socotra home. The house was immense, covering more than 20,000 square feet, surrounded by pools and small waterfalls, with many verandas and balconies that all presented spectacular views of the surrounding Arabian Sea. His yacht, back from its rendezvous with the
Haramosh Star,
was anchored in the harbor just below his home. He was smoking a pipe of deliciously cooked opium, and watching the satellite feeds from the American media giants. He smiled. The
USS Cushing
crew had definitely been amusing. He could speak English as though he had been educated at Oxford, but had thought it would add to the fun to speak in the manner of a recent immigrant. “Oh no, sir. No sirree. Semtex, what is that? Oh no, not here kind sir...” Their reactions had been priceless.

Mustafa and his crew had performed brilliantly in Libya. But the Americans were clever, and seemed to have discovered the Semtex heist as soon as it happened. Yousseff had anticipated a chase to northern Darfur, and had a defense scheme in place. He hadn’t expected the Americans to be so quick, which had led to a malfunction in that defense plan. The Janjawiid had come on the scene a bit late, and the resulting affair showed just how dangerous the Americans were. What should have been a turkey shoot ended up with two dozen Janjawiid dead. Who knew Yankees could be so clever with puzzle pieces?

They had tracked down, and presumably captured via satellite, the reload to the
Haramosh Star.
But they had stumbled badly when they interdicted the small container ship. They had not counted on the magical technology of Karachi Drydock and Engineering and Pacific Western Submersibles. Yousseff smiled to himself and inhaled deeply. For a moment, he let himself feel safe.

M
AHARI COULD NOT BELIEVE his good fortune. A message, delivered tersely by telephone, directed him to get himself to a location in the busy market area of Peshawar. Before he knew it, he was in possession of a second DVD and, of course, a second Samsonite case. As soon as he had driven what he felt to be a safe distance back toward Rawalpindi, he pulled over and, with trembling fingers, flipped the locks and opened the case. Sure enough, it was crammed full of American dollars. All he had to do was go to the Al Jazeera station and create a news clip featuring excerpts from the DVD. Things were finally starting to go his way, he thought; he would make his career, and become fabulously wealthy in the process. He was living a dream — a fabulous, multicolored dream.

Within minutes of his entry into the Al Jazeera station, the message was being played around the world, with Mahari’s name and face attached. Most major news services interrupted regular programming to broadcast the clip.

W
E SHOULD COLLAR that son of a bitch,” snorted Admiral Jackson. “Cut off his appendages one by one until he talks.” That became a serious point of discussion in the meetings with the President, the new SECDEF, and the others entrusted with the nation’s security. But, given the recent public relations disaster of the
Haramosh Star,
it was decided that the prudent course was to keep on the safe side of the law, whether it be international, Pakistani, or American.

Once again, every pixel and nuance of the new message from the Emir was analyzed by all the constituents of the US Intelligence Community. Reports were generated, and then further reports. Reports analyzing other reports, and reports synthesizing reports, spread like rabbits throughout the numerous agencies. The talking heads, the gurus of American cable television, debated it endlessly.

The Emir’s dress and appearance were identical to that in the first message. The consensus was that both messages had been recorded at the same time. An analysis of the background lighting, and the nature and quality of shifting light and shadow, appeared to confirm this. The message contained the same salutations to the young martyrs for the
jihad
. It contained the same condemnations of the Great Satan, and, of course, the Lesser Satan. It contained the same exhortation to faithful Muslims, asking them to strike at America and Israel anywhere and everywhere in the world. Then came the part that made the President and his war council nervous.

Discussion raged throughout the Intelligence Community. Was the Emir threatening a nuclear attack? Had he somehow acquired a nuclear weapon? Could four or five tons of Semtex level a city? Was it a radiologically dirty bomb? There were more questions than answers. The prevailing wisdom was that it probably was not the Semtex. Most thought that it would be nuclear. It had to be. It was the consensus at Langley, Fort Meade, the White House, and within most of the Intelligence Community. Four or five tons of high explosives was a lot, but it could not possibly do the damage the Emir was promising.

The anxiety was generated chiefly, once again, by that very promise that a strike would take place. If such a promise were made, and then there was no such strike, the Emir would lose face and power. But if he promised it, if he gave America ample warning, and still pulled it off, his stature would become mythic. He would accomplish what all the terrorist leaders had attempted, but failed to do. He would become the new Sword of Islam. He would be unstoppable.

T
HE PRESIDENT had received the report from Tel Aviv a few hours earlier. He had met with his press secretary and his Chief of Staff about how to use this information to its maximum advantage. The report was lurid and clinically detailed. It had incredible shock value. He thought that he could use it politically. It would take the focus off his country’s blunder. Maybe cool some of the heat that had been generated by the
Haramosh Star
incident. And why not? The information contained in the report was shocking. A gang of thugs had tortured an American agent to death, and then mocked America by placing his dismembered remains in front of the American Embassy in Islamabad. This was a true atrocity. It was an outrage. This was not the sort of sophomoric behavior that had come out of Abu Ghraib — flushing the Koran down the toilet, or letting a dog into an interrogation room. This was vicious, calculated torture that ended in a terrible death... something of a different class altogether.

“I’m going public with it,” he said to his inner circle. “I’ll call a press conference. We are going to deal with this issue, and this issue alone. I will answer questions about Zak Goldberg, and how he died, and who we think killed him, and what we’re going to do about it. It will draw the media’s attention away from the
Haramosh Star
business. We are going to expose these people for the monsters they are. No one does this to one of our guys and gets away with it.”

He had spoken to Zak’s parents a few hours earlier, and had extended to them his personal condolences. He had asked their permission to make a public statement as to the manner of their son’s death. It was a measure of the complexity of the President, a matter often overlooked by the media. He could have bombed the entire Middle East back into the Stone Age were he so inclined, and yet he felt compelled to ask the permission of two ordinary retired folk before announcing to the world what had happened to their son.

“How sure are we that this was actually Zak Goldberg?” asked the Chief of Staff. “After all, it was, grisly as it may sound, a collection of body parts. And there was no head, so facial recognition is out of the question.”

“We’ve got a perfect match on the fingerprints,” said the President. “I don’t know what better proof you can have.”

“Well, DNA maybe?” replied the Chief of Staff doubtfully.

“Takes too long,” replied the President. “The guys who prepared the report said it would take at least two days to get a reliable DNA fingerprint. I want to air this immediately. I want to take a bit of the steam out of this rotten
Haramosh
Star thing. We need this now. Plus we have the ID of the ring by that other character... his brother?”

“Richard Lawrence. His best friend.”

“Right. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t need anything more than what we have. A terrible crime has been committed against an American, and the world needs to know about it. We do this now.” The President was resolute, and his position reasonable. Fingerprints were conclusive ID in any courtroom.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, his press secretary also tried to talk him out of it, for more public reasons. While the President had considerable intelligence and skill, he could appear wooden before the media. He could, and had on many previous occasions, forgotten or mispronounced words, much to the glee of the media and detractors. But the President would not be dissuaded, and he started the day by appearing in person before the media of the world.

“Good morning everyone,” he began. “This morning I am going to tell you how a courageous and highly skilled American CIA agent was murdered. The name of this individual was Zachariah Goldberg, one of our own — a man who had served his country with dedication in many positions for nearly three decades. You might even say that this man was born into the position.”

A murmur drifted through the crowd. This was unusual. They had expected to see the press secretary, or, these days, even the assistant press secretary. Yet here was the man himself, making a death announcement. It had never been done before, by any president. With thousands of American soldiers having been killed in Afghanistan and Iraq, and with the tidal waves generated by the
Haramosh Star
incident not yet subsided, this had to be special.

“Agent Goldberg was working undercover, in an area of Afghanistan near Kabul and Jalalabad. He had been working undercover there for almost four years, seeking to penetrate the al-Qaeda organization. Our Intelligence Community believes that the senior leaders of this terrorist group are holed up somewhere in the mountains in that region.

“We believe that Zak Goldberg found out precisely where those leaders were located, and that he was attempting to provide us with that information when he was apprehended. Yes, he was an agent in the field, in the midst of a dangerous mission. But when the United States of America finds an enemy agent in its midst, say for instance an agent who wants to smash mighty buildings into powder and murder thousands of civilians, we incarcerate him. We give him rights, lawyers, and courtrooms. And if we convict him, we put him in jail, where we give him three square meals a day, medical assistance, exercise facilities, and television. Sometimes we even let him have a pet.

“I want you to keep that in mind when I tell you what these people did to Zak Goldberg when they discovered him. I am going to read to you the conclusions of some of the top forensic pathologists on the planet, in both Tel Aviv and Washington.”

The media scrum was becoming uneasy. The President himself reading a coroner’s report? What was up with that? The President sensed the growing discomfort in the room, but continued. He read slowly and deliberately, pausing a second or two between phrases or sentences, to let the awful magnitude of what had happened to Zak truly sink in.

“They smashed his right leg to pieces. They tore the tibia completely from its surrounding flesh and tissue, and discarded it. It was not with the rest of the body. They smashed most of the bones in his feet to pieces with some kind of blunt instrument, probably a hammer. They ruptured both testicles, through blunt force trauma. The forensic scientists who examined him think this was done through repeated, incredibly vicious blows to the groin. He had many internal injuries, some occasioned by blunt force, others by surgical instruments.”

The President was speaking with a slow and measured deliberation. He wanted to make sure that everyone understood what had happened. The fidgeting in the room increased.

“Worse yet, they proceeded to flay the skin from his body. The skin was removed from his entire left arm, and most of his right arm received the same treatment. There was similar abuse to the skin on his back. Some of these injuries were old when he died, which means he was tortured again and again, over many weeks.”

The President stopped reading for a moment. It was not for dramatic effect. He too was feeling the pain and outrage of what had happened, and his voice was going to fail him if he continued. He took a long sip of water, looking out over his audience. The press began shifting nervously in their seats. They did not want to hear anything else. But there was more, and the President wasn’t going to let them off the hook.

“At some point in this hideous crime, Zak’s captors proceeded, while he was still alive, to dismember him. Both feet were chopped from his body. We received only one hand, which seems to have been cut off using a dull carpenter’s saw. We can only hope that he was unconscious for much of this abuse. Both his arms and both his legs were also cut off before he was killed.

“His remains were placed in rice bags and deposited in front of the American Embassy in Islamabad. That is where he was found. Only one hand and one foot were included, and his head was missing. We do not know why this was done, but it makes it extremely difficult to say exactly how our man finally died.”

For a full 30 seconds there was dead silence from the usually raucous press corp. No one dared speak. There was no coughing, no shuffling of feet, no raising of a hand. Any remaining questions about the
Haramosh Star
were forgotten. The President slowly leaned forward, pinning the reporters with his gaze, and spoke into the bundle of microphones. “We will find his killers. We know exactly where they are located. And we will bring them to justice. That is a promise. Thank you.”

He turned and left, leaving his press secretary to answer the questions, which began slowly, but continued for a full 30 minutes.

T
HE CENTRAL BALLROOM at Ramma 5, Diplomatic Enclave was crowded, with all eyes focused on the wide screen TV. Almost everyone in the Islamabad Embassy had known Zak. None had heard the coroner’s report yet. As the President’s speech went on, some started to sob, while others curled their fists in anger. How could they? How could the cold-hearted, murderous bastards do this to any person, and how could it have happened to someone who had been their colleague and friend?

None took the briefing harder than Richard. He had considered Zak a brother. He had grown up with him, and lived with Zak and his family in California when his own mother and father were lost in the car crash. Zak had been his family; his best friend and brother. When he first found out about the man’s death, he had gone on a binge of alcohol and painkillers. He had let the fog of drugs and alcohol numb his system, and transport him back to an earlier time. A time when he had thought life was over, and when Zak had been there to pick him up and carry him on.

I
T HAD BEEN A WARM September evening in 1970 when a young Richard heard a sharp knock on the door of his stately family home on Ramma 5, Islamabad, just a few steps over from the American Embassy. He had been deeply immersed in an introductory calculus text, attempting to solve derivative equations. Because of his nationality and his parents’ positions at the Embassy, his schoolwork was done partially through correspondence and partially through the local high school. Exams were approaching, and he had been deeply engrossed in his work. When he didn’t respond to the knock, it was repeated, more insistently. Richard put his pen down, and walked toward the front door. As he reached the central foyer the knock was repeated a third time.