Night Hush (10 page)

Jace bottom-­lined it for them. “You smack a bull on the nose, it backs up for a minute,” he said. “You may think you've scared it, but then it charges. All you've done is make it more dangerous.”

Silence settled in the room.

The CIA station chief cleared his throat. “So what I'm hearing you say is they haven't gone away. They're just getting more sophisticated weapons to attack us with?”

“Yes.”

“How, then, do you explain the reduction in the attacks against US interests?” asked Dr. Pangbourn.

“Obtaining that type of weaponry is costly,” Trevor said. “Most of the rabble-­rousers in this part of the world are disorganized, decentralized, and don't have that type of cash.” He tugged on his earlobe. “There's another theory, of course. I and my teams are seeing evidence on the ground that some of the more extreme groups are organizing. That they have more on their mind than a few car bombs. Possibly even a major objective.”

Brian Seifert sat up. “The president?”

Jowat huffed. “I'm in charge of securing the parade grounds. No one is getting through my security. The president will be safe, I promise you that.”

Seifert threw him an annoyed glance. Trevor shrugged and spoke directly to Seifert. “Perhaps, although that would be extremely difficult to pull off. The Secret Ser­vice, who, as I understand it”—­he twitched his lips—­“is
solely
responsible for the safety of the American president, happen to be extremely good at their job.”

Mike Boston put a hand on the other agent's arm. Seifert sat back, still glowering.

Jace leaned forward to snare Boston's attention. “They would need a significant amount of funding, training, and weapons,” he said. “Things we believe some of the groups have. The Kongra-­Gel is the biggest threat here in Azakistan.” He thought about the SCUD and its capabilities. “My guess would be something less well guarded, but still very important. Critical infrastructure. A power plant. A Western-­style mall. Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin's home, maybe. It depends on the group's objectives. Do they want Westerners out? Do they want the current government to fail? Do they just want to cause mayhem in the name of jihad?”

Shelby fiddled with her pointer. “The State Department intelligence group created summaries of the various terrorist groups in the region, outlining the major players and their objectives,” she told the Secret Ser­vice. “Would you like a copy?”

Mike Boston cleared his throat. “Let's take that a step further. Major Carswell, Mr. Reed, would you two be willing to get with our intelligence assets here? Vet what they suspect against what you know?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

August 27. 8:45
A.M.

Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

A
A'IDAH
K
ARIM WATCH
ED
Shukri with the sheik from her safe position behind her desk. The three men stood in the glass-­enclosed conference room. It felt odd that they did not sit.

Her brother's stiff shoulders and tight mouth broadcast his anger. He did not dare shout at the sheik, though, and Aa'idah knew with a sinking certainty he would take it out on her, later, at home. He disapproved of her working here at their father's asset management firm, even as a temporary receptionist. Perhaps this time he would convince their father his younger sister ought to remain at home, sequestered with their mother and her two younger sisters, as a proper Muslim girl should be. Never mind that Aa'idah was twenty-­six years old, or held a master's degree in Education. She had been teaching Grade 11 at a girl's school for the past year. Her students loved her.

The more Shukri kept company with the Salafists, the angrier he became.

Aa'idah had been heartbroken when her school had been closed, the girls told to return to their homes and stay there. The imams, particularly Salman Ibrahim, preached there was no need for them to receive an education. Men should have that privilege, because it was a man's sacred duty to provide for and protect the women of his family.

Most of the other teachers had taken it badly. Aa'idah, however, knew it was a blessing from Allah, because scarcely five weeks after it had been closed, an American bomb had missed its target and damaged the school. It had been in the evening, after hours, but her heart still shuddered at the thought of tiny bodies buried in the rubble.

The conversation with her brother and the sheik ended. The sheik sailed majestically out of the conference room and into her reception area, followed by the brawny man at his side and a sulking Shukri. The large man, whose name was Zaahir al-­Farouk, frightened her. The Salafist jihadists, of which her stupid brother was now proudly a member, frightened her as well, but Zaahir's zealotry bordered on lunacy. He intended to strike at the heart of the infidel, whatever that meant. His seething hatred of all things Western was idiotic, but she dared not say so. Not to her brother. Not to her father.

Zaahir stopped at her desk, offering her a gentle smile that made her want to hide. “Good morning, Aa'idah. How are you today?”

Aa'idah could not force herself to return the smile. She kept her gaze lowered, afraid he'd see her thoughts in her eyes. “Good morning to you, as well. I was just about to get a cup of tea.” She winced, realizing too late her words might be misconstrued as an invitation. Fortunately, the sheik barked at Zaahir to hurry. With a lingering, pensive look, he nodded to her and left.

Aa'idah let out a slow, shaking breath. Each time she saw the big man, his interest became more blatant. Her brother would see it as an honor; perhaps force her into accepting Zaahir's interest. And then what would she do? She shuddered with revulsion and fear.

When had her life become so complicated and fraught with danger?

If either her brother or Zaahir were to learn that Christina Madison wanted her to spy on her family, she would be punished and sequestered. Christina hadn't come right out and said that's what she wanted of Aa'idah, but Aa'idah was not stupid. Nor was she ready to betray her loved ones, no matter how misguided her brother had become.

But at the same time, she could see what waited in her future. First they took the right to education away from Muslim girls. Then they took everything else. She could not simply stand by and watch that happen.

Whatever her brother and his cohorts planned would be dangerous, and doomed to failure. Yes, they might strike a blow. Bloody some noses. But long-­lasting peace could not be achieved through violence. And Aa'idah wanted peace for her country. She wanted an end to the constant presence of NATO soldiers, the constant fear of bombs exploding and killing her friends, her family. She wanted a return to how things had been, when a Western influence had been considered beneficial.

She didn't hate Americans. She just wanted them to leave. Without the constant American presence, her brother and the other jihadists might relax.

But with the increased influence of the imams, she could very well end up a virtual prisoner in her own household.

The thought of her gender declining into the equivalent of a Dark Age, banned from government, from careers, their vision and perspective ignored, flooded her with repugnance. Her stomach churned. It was happening here in Azakistan as surely as it had happened in Afghanistan and Iran.

She would help end this, Aa'idah decided. She would discover Zaahir's plan and find a way to pass the information to Christina Madison. It would be worth it, if she could help stop the insanity in some small way.

And maybe, in the process, she could save her brother's life.

 

Chapter Sixteen

August 27. 11:00
A.M.

Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

T
HEY GATHE
RED AROUND
her hospital bedside like so many shadowy mongrels. No group of ­people could have been more dissimilar: the starched-­and-­pressed commander of 5
th
Battalion, 10
th
Special Forces Group, wearing a blue ser­vice uniform and a chestful of ribbons; the jittery CIA station chief, Jay Spicer, in his rumpled plaid shirt and flip-­flops; a Secret Ser­vice agent wearing a cheap black suit; and a lawyer from the Judge Advocate General's Office, on hand to assist her with whatever she needed. Even the FBI legal attaché put in an appearance because she had been a kidnapped American. An impossibly young soldier in an Army combat uniform sat off to the side with his stenograph machine.

“Just take your time,” the lawyer said, crossing her legs. “Take us through the events of August 10 and 11.”

Heather pushed back against the pillows propping her up, trying to get comfortable. This debriefing would be much easier if she were properly dressed, she reflected. But no, she wore a hospital gown and fuzzy pink socks. She sighed. Where to start?

“Well, I was in Eshma, as you know. They were desperate for Arabic speakers after the bombings. I was there for about two weeks.” She drew her knees up to her chest and ran her palms over them. “I was in a market plaza grabbing some lunch. Wearing a full burkha, as requested by the mayor when relief workers started arriving on-­site. I sat under a tree and read my book while I ate.

“Three men were already at table close by. I couldn't hear everything they said, but they were quarreling. Angry. The man in charge was . . . was the man who questioned . . .”
Call it what it was, Langstrom.
“Tortured me. While I was being held, to find out if I really knew anything.”

She focused on the water pitcher by her bed. Anything was better than seeing their pitying expressions.

“What was his name?” Jay Spicer asked. His foot tap-­tap-­tapped against the floor.

“I never found out. The soldiers just called him sayyed. Sir.”

“Can you describe him?” asked one of the Secret Ser­vice agents. Brian something. He gripped a stubby pencil as he prepared to jot down notes.

“Yes.” She would never forget him. Never. “Big. Broad shoulders. Six-­two, maybe? Definitely five or six inches taller than most Arab men. Swarthy. Strong nose with just a slight hook. Short hair with a bit of gray at the temples, but I doubt he was any older than forty.”

The lawyer tapped her pen onto her yellow legal pad. “What happened then, Lieutenant?”

“I called my company commander, who was in Eshma with me. I asked him to get us in to see Sa'id al-­Jabr, the Eshma chief of police. I wanted to see if the men I saw were known criminals.”

“Were they?” Jay Spicer asked. Now his knee bounced. The man seemed incapable of sitting still.

“Sa'id al-­Jabr claimed he didn't know them. I could tell he was hiding something, though. He didn't seem concerned when I tried to warn him about the possibility of another attack, like the one at the Ubadah Government Center.” That had turned out to be her last day of freedom.

Her battalion commander shifted his weight. Unlike the others, who sat or leaned on various surfaces, he stood with legs shoulder-­width apart and arms at his sides. “At this point, Captain Bernoulli contacted me and gave me a full report.”

The lawyer looked up from her notes. “And Captain Bernoulli is . . . ?”

“My company commander,” Heather said. “Was. He died in the convoy attack.” Her throat tightened. She grabbed the pitcher and poured herself some water to cover the sudden rush of emotion.

Jay Spicer gave her a reassuring nod. His knee finally stilled. “Colonel Neal passed that report on to me.” He gestured to the battalion commander, glancing to make sure the lawyer understood. “We followed up on that, Lieutenant. Sa'id al-­Jabr got his position through political connections. If he has ties to the Kongra-­Gel, we couldn't find it.”

“We don't believe at this point the convoy attack had anything to do with the Eshma police,” added the FBI legal attaché, “or the mayor's office. We think it was a target of opportunity.”

Brian of the Secret Ser­vice looked up at that. “Sorry, what? There's no way that was coincidence.”

“I didn't say coincidence,” the attaché said. “I said opportunity.”

The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Neal, turned more fully to face Brian. “He means that the men Lieutenant Langstrom saw acted on impulse to ambush the convoy.”

Brian's brow furrowed as he shook his head. “And took her? Only her? Lieutenant, were you the only woman in the convoy?”

Heather put a hand to her aching head. “I think so. Maybe. I honestly don't remember.”

“So they were looking for whoever wore the burkha, I guess,” Brian muttered, scribbling something into his notebook.

Jay Spicer scratched his cheek, then just left his fingers where they were, as though he'd forgotten what he was doing. “Hate to ask you this, Lieutenant,” he said. He looked at the floor, then ran a finger under his lip. “You said ‘questioned.' The man who questioned you. What did he ask?”

Heather froze. She
so
didn't want to go there.

“Lieutenant?” This time it was her commander, his tone calm but authoritative.

She took a deep breath. “He wanted to know why I was in Eshma. Something about a lab. Who I'd told about the Kongra-­Gel attack. I didn't know anything.”

“There will not be an attack,” Colonel Neal. “Bomber planes destroyed the missile they had on-­site. They no longer have the ability to attack us.”

“I'll have you write everything out in more detail,” the lawyer said. “We're just trying to get the basics here.”

“What happened after your visit to the Eshma police?” Jay Spicer asked.

She began to breathe again. “Captain Bernoulli decided we should head back here, to al-­Zadr. We'd done everything we could in Eshma. A convoy was leaving the next morning. He wrangled us a ride on it.” She rotated her head, trying to alleviate some of the tension in her neck. “The trucks were empty. They'd brought medical supplies, food, and water to Eshma.”

The next part would be tough. Heather forced herself to continue.

“The convoy consisted of an empty flatbed truck and two deuce-­and-­a-­halfs.” She glanced at the Secret Ser­vice agent. “That's a two-­and-­a-­half-­ton truck. It's a cargo-­slash-­personnel transport. Two wooden benches run the length of the truck bed, one on either side, butting up against a heavy canvas canopy. Looks kind of like a modern-­day covered wagon.”

Brian nodded and gestured for her to continue.

“We also had the required armored Humvees front and rear, with infantrymen to guard the convoy. Armor plating reinforced the trucks, and all of us wore flak jackets and Kevlar helmets. We were armed.” She was stalling, and everyone in the room knew it. Heather cleared her throat.

“We'd been on the road for about forty minutes when the convoy slowed. I was in the back of a deuce-­and-­a-­half and could see the turret gunner in the trailing Humvee start to yell and point. There was an explosion—­it had to have been a roadside bomb. Next thing I knew, the truck was practically upside down in a ditch.” Heather had been slammed against the metal siding hard enough to see stars. A heavy body had smashed into her. Cries of surprise and fear around her had turned to groans of pain.

“RPGs exploded in and around the convoy . . .”

“I'm sorry,” Brian interrupted. “RPGs? Rocket-­propelled grenades?”

“Yes. There was a lot of confusion, yelling, gunfire.” She had struggled to lift the dead weight off her before she saw who it was. The young corpsman's face had been a bloody mess, his eyes open and staring. “I got free of the truck, then I could see maybe two dozen Arab men coming down the hillside, firing at us. I had my sidearm, so I returned fire.”

“What were the others doing?” her commander asked.

“We were all fighting, sir. But there were too many of them. We were overrun.”

“You surrendered?” Distaste colored the commander's tone.

“Yes, sir. We had no choice.” She smoothed the blanket over her legs. “The leader—­the sayyed from the camp—­grabbed me. I fought, of course.” Her fist had smashed his nose. She had the satisfaction of seeing his blood spurt before he growled and hit her alongside the head with a meaty fist. “I went down.”

She crushed her empty paper cup in a fist. “Next thing I remember, I was in a prison cell in a terrorist training camp.”