Quest for Honor (28 page)

Jim looked at Bentler like he was insane. “Are you out of your mind? That son of a bitch is beating that poor woman!” Another smack, followed by a whimper and a pleading voice. Jim pulled against the agents’ grips, but they were stronger than him, younger, and there were two of them and only one of him.

“Hayes, get back here!” That was Simons.

It went against everything Jim had ever known, everything he’d ever been taught, but he reached back to the training he’d gone through in the past week, and the number one restriction he’d been given, reinforced in the last mission brief just hours earlier:
Don’t interact with the locals.
He relaxed just enough to allow the agents to lead him back to the curb. Simons glared at him, then led the way across the street to the hotel.

Inside, the lobby was like something out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie, but Jim barely had a chance to register the threadbare carpet and tired old furniture when Simons was right in his face. “What the hell were you thinking out there, Hayes?”

“You saw it. That bastard was beating that defenseless woman. Those other characters were just watching the show. Nobody was sticking up for her.”

“That’s what they do here. They told you that back at Langley, didn’t they?”

As a matter of fact, one of his CIA briefers had indeed mentioned the occasional public humiliation of women in Islamic countries, but Jim had brushed it off. It was a concept entirely alien to his thinking. Even now, he could hardly believe what he’d seen. “Yeah, they did,” he said defiantly, “but they didn’t say you had to be a chickenshit and just let it go.”

Denise forced her way in between the men. “Get a grip, both of you. What’s done is done. We have to get ready for the meet.” She looked defiantly at Simons, then back at Jim. “Jim, remember, this isn’t Wisconsin.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

Simons gave him one more intense look and then went to the desk to talk to the clerk.

Jim was still trying to process what had happened out on the street. He’d heard about such things, although they weren’t shown much in American media, probably for reasons of political correctness. Were these people crazy? It was like something out of the Middle Ages. But he had to deal with that by not dealing with it as he really wanted to. The clown with the stick was one thing, Jim could’ve taken him down easily, but the guy with the submachine gun was an entirely different matter. Jim forced himself to analyze the situation from a tactical viewpoint, as his instructors back home constantly stressed. Simons was right, of course, things would’ve gone to hell quickly and the mission would’ve been blown. Jim might’ve gotten all of them killed right there. As it was, he’d drawn attention to the team out on the street. Word would get around quickly.

Carson was next to him. “Don’t sweat it,” the agent said. “You get used to that type of thing over here.”

“Thanks,” Jim said. He looked back at Simons, still talking to the clerk. “I hope I didn’t screw up the mission.”

“Hey, in this shithole of a city, everything’s screwed up.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mogadishu

Y
usuf entered the
hotel with his heart hammering inside his chest. He felt more nervous than he had on any of his missions. Early on in his career he had been filled with the flame of Islam, dealing death to the infidels, fatalistically accepting his fate if he should be killed during the mission, ready to be accepted into Allah’s warm embrace and be escorted to the feast and the nubile virgins awaiting him. Later, as the flame of his faith began to die down, he did his job more and more because it was a job that had to be done. But things were different now.

In the weeks since he’d made his decision to defect, he had for the first time allowed himself to think of a life after jihad
.
Not as the right-hand man of the caliph, but as someone who would live out his days in simplicity and safety, perhaps caring for his parents in their waning years. Maybe he would write his memoirs, make enough money to get himself a villa in a quiet place, where he could live out his days in peace and anonymity. It made for a pleasant daydream, but it was still very far away from reality.

The two Somali bodyguards entered the lobby ahead of him, then nodded that it was secure. How could they be sure? One never was completely secure in Mogadishu. But if the Americans wanted to kidnap him, they would’ve done it by now. No, they were here, waiting in some room above him. He went to the desk. He had scanned the lobby and spotted a man he assumed was one of Simons’ American agents, sitting in one of the lobby chairs, pretending to read a newspaper.

“Good evening,” he said to the clerk in his best Somali. “Could you tell me the room of Mr. Muncie?”

The clerk checked a ledger in front of him. “He just checked in a short time ago, sir. Room 212, second floor. The elevator is to your right.”

“Thank you.” Yusuf scanned the lobby as unobtrusively as possible. There were a few men lounging about, including one well-built black man who was definitely not Somalian. Yusuf made him instantly as an American agent. “Oh, by the way,” he said, turning back to the clerk, “I noticed some commotion outside. People seem to be hurrying somewhere.”

The clerk glanced to the lobby, then leaned over the counter. “There is talk that al-Shabaab is on the move. I saw some of their trucks not long ago.”

“Indeed?”

“I would advise caution in the city tonight, sir.”

“Yes, it is always best to be cautious. Thank you.” He nodded to the clerk and walked toward the elevator, then turned when he was out of sight of the desk for the stairway door he had seen with his earlier glance. With the two Somali bodyguards behind him, he entered the stairwell and began climbing to the second floor.

The last digit of 212 had vanished, so Yusuf missed the room at first, forcing him to double back once he got to 214 and then 216. He knocked twice on the door, paused, then three times, as he and Simons had agreed. He told the bodyguards to wait outside and opened the door to the rest of his life.

The CIA agent was sitting at the writing desk, dressed casually, taking a drink from a plastic bottle of water. He stood. “Good evening, Mr. Shalita. You’re right on time.”

Yusuf closed the door behind him and glanced around the room. “Is he here?”

“Yes, he is. Please, have a seat.” Simons gestured at a threadbare easy chair next to the desk. A queen-sized bed dominated the room. The door to the bathroom was closed.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Very well.” Simons stood. “Are you prepared to fulfill your part of our bargain?”

“I have been prepared for a long time, Simons. Is he here, or isn’t he?”

The American gave him a stare, then said, “Okay, Jim, come on out.” The door to the adjoining room opened and a tall Westerner stepped out.

The man smiled. “Well, Joe, it really is you, isn’t it?”

Hayes was taller than he remembered, his hair was shorter and flecked with gray, as was his mustache, but it was James Hayes, of that Yusuf was certain. He remembered that voice from so many days in class, and around the table at the college pub. “It has been a long time, James.” Yusuf walked over to him and extended a hand. They shook, and then, impulsively, Yusuf embraced him.

Simons cleared his throat, and Hayes stepped back. “Oh, right. Joe, you remember that night at the campus bar, the time that girl was draped all over you and spilled your beer on your lap?”

Yusuf had to smile in spite of himself. “Yes, very well.”

“What was the name of the bar, and what happened with the girl?”

“It was the Rendezvous Room, in the basement of the Student Center. Just down the hall from the bowling alley. The girl offered to take me home and wash and dry my pants.”

“You might’ve scored that night if her boyfriend the wrestler hadn’t showed up.”

“Yes, but he was a football player, not a wrestler.”

Hayes looked over at Simons and nodded. “It all checks out.”

“Okay, good,” Simons said. He extended his hand. “Mr. Shalita, are you prepared to come with us now?

Yusuf took the hand and shook it firmly. “Yes, I am.”

Another man and a woman stepped into the room. The man was putting a handgun into a holster at the small of his back, under his shirt. Simons had a portable radio and went off to the side, talking into it. The other man and the woman looked Yusuf over with some suspicion, but James was smiling. Yusuf thought of how frightening it must be for his old college friend to leave his peaceful Wisconsin and come all the way to this city, even now with the sound of gunfire in the distance, closer than it had been just minutes earlier. Truly this was a man of courage. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. There had been something about this American, even back then, that told Yusuf a lot about his character. Allah be praised, he had brought Hayes to this place so that Yusuf could begin to cleanse his soul.

Simons joined them. “We have to move, now. Backstop sees some heavy contact only a few blocks north of here.”

The male agent was at the window, his gun drawn as he peered around the edge of the ratty curtain. Another one appeared at the doorway. “Sir, we’d—“

Yusuf heard the sound, so familiar and yet still so terrifying, like a train coming straight at them. He dropped to the floor, pulling Hayes down next to him. The explosion shook the building, lifting him up off the floor and tossing him aside like so much loose change. The lights in the room flickered and went dark.

Someone had a pocket-sized flashlight, the beam cutting through the falling dust from the ceiling. “Come on, follow me now!” It was Simons, and Yusuf felt a strong hand lifting him to his feet.

“You okay, Joe?” He looked up in the dim light to see his old American friend.

“Yes. We must hurry.”

Out in the hallway, the Somali bodyguards were long gone. The CIA station chief, with one of his men in front, now had a pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other as he hurried the group down the hallway. No other doors opened, no frightened faces peered out. They came to the stairwell and the lead agent slammed the door open, gun pointing into the darkness and traversing the area. Simons handed him the flashlight and he scanned the hallway quickly. “Looks clear!”

Another shell came in, this time a bit further away, but the old hotel was still rocked from the impact. That had to be government artillery, Yusuf knew, since he was certain al-Shabaab had nothing larger than mortars, but for the government to shell one of the central districts of its own capital? It was insane, but insanity had been a part of Somalia for a long time. On his last visit Yusuf had seen Somali rebels dragging the crushed body of an Ethiopian soldier through the streets not too far from here, and the civilians along the way were cheering them on.

They pounded down the stairwell and burst into the lobby. People were running past them, seemingly in a panic. At the desk, the clerk Yusuf had spoken to only minutes ago was rifling the till kept underneath the desk, stuffing bills into his pockets. The black American he’d seen in the lobby earlier was near the front doors, holding a pistol. The American who’d led the way down the stairs ran to join him. A hail of bullets smashed the glass in the doors and both men went down.

“Back to the stairs!” Simons shouted. Yusuf turned and saw two figures looming out of the shadows. Two shots cracked from the darkness and the trailing American spun around like a rag doll, blood spurting from one shoulder, his weapon flying away. Behind him, Yusuf heard a grunt from Simons and the sound of a body hitting the floor, but he could not look, could not tear his eyes away from the shadows, because from them emerged two men, holding guns pointed his way and at the remaining Americans. Yusuf recognized the first man immediately.

Amir stepped aside, his weapon trained steadily on the woman, and behind him came a voice that brought Yusuf a sinking feeling of despair even before the man stepped into the dim light.

“Well, Yusuf, I am very disappointed in you,” Heydar said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Afghanistan

T
he first time
Mark met with the Pakistani colonel in charge of the border checkpoint, he was not impressed. That had been two months ago, and he was even less impressed now.

“Colonel Barazani, I know the Taliban insurgents are infiltrating through your checkpoint,” he said again. “They have been observed by our scouts, by the Afghan National Army and by our aircraft. Why are you denying this?”

Across the empty desk, the pudgy colonel sat placidly in his chair, twiddling his thumbs. His black beret covered what was probably thinning black hair, but he made up for that with a bushy mustache. On his right sleeve, Mark noted a few qualification insignia and badges, starting at the top with the wings of a para commando. This guy certainly didn’t look like a paratrooper or someone from their Special Services Group. The border checkpoints in this region were manned by a paramilitary force, the Frontier Corps, composed of local tribesmen, but commanded by regular Pak Army officers. Mark had heard that a billet with the FC wasn’t exactly an elite posting, and Barazani wasn’t doing anything to counter that impression.

The Pakistani colonel shot a stream of rapid Urdu at his interpreter, a young lieutenant. “The colonel, he says that your men are mistaken,” the ‘terp said. “Our checkpoints are secure. It is only permitted for authorized travel across the border.”

Mark motioned to Captain Richards, who handed him an iPad. Mark touched a couple buttons and turned the screen to face the Pakistani. “Colonel, this video was taken three days ago by one of our drones. You can clearly see a group of ten armed men walking right through your checkpoint into Afghanistan. Please note that two of them are carrying RPG tubes.” The column, in fact, looked very similar to the one Mark and his men had ambushed several days back, only a few miles from here.

Barazini stared at the pad, and for the first time Mark saw a flicker of unease in those piggy eyes. After a moment he shot another indignant-sounding stream of Urdu at the ‘terp. “The colonel says that checkpoint is not his. This must be somewhere else on the border.”

Mark had been pretty sure this would be the colonel’s reaction, so he pressed another pair of buttons. The picture zoomed in on the guard post. The drone had gotten a good angle and even from several thousand feet above, the resolution of the shot, enhanced by the computer, was impressive. “You will note, Colonel Barazini, that this guard post is exactly like the one you have out there.” He pointed out the window toward the small building where two of Barazini’s guards stood, smoking cigarettes. On the side of the building was a word painted in Urdu above the number 24. “Even right down to the number on the side of the building.”

Barazini took a quick glance at the picture, then looked away. This time he waited a few seconds before rattling off a sentence to the ‘terp. “The colonel says he will investigate this, if the date and time of this you can provide to him.”

Richards produced an envelope, and Mark passed it along to the Pakistani. “We took the liberty of making a digital copy of the video. In addition to the time and date stamp on the video itself, we have written the information down. The video also shows six other such incursions dating back two months. We have included the dates and times of those. All through this checkpoint.”

Barazini glanced at the envelope, then tossed it to his aide standing behind him. Mustering as much dignity as possible after having been busted so completely, the colonel stood, and Mark did also. “When can I expect to know the results of your investigation, Colonel?”

“Perhaps a week. Perhaps more,” the ‘terp translated. He was getting more nervous by the minute.

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind the colonel that his government and the government of Afghanistan, which is represented by Captain Zadran here, have an agreement to prevent illegal border crossings like these.” The ANA officer standing next to Richards offered a broad smile. Zadran had grown up in this region and was fluent in Urdu, so Mark would be able to question him later about the accuracy of the Pak ‘terp’s translation. He had the feeling it would be pretty solid. “If I am not satisfied by your investigation, Colonel, I will have no choice but to report this to my superiors in Kabul. They might very well order me to be, shall we say, more energetic in my efforts to secure this border from the Afghan side.”

When Barazini got the translation from his trembling lieutenant, his eyes grew wide and then bored into Mark. He spoke again in Urdu, this time without taking his eyes off the American. Mark’s knowledge of the language was pretty limited, but he did understand the words
mera lund lay moon main.
The young ‘terp coughed and said, “The colonel…he says he is an officer in the Army of Pakistan and…ah, he will not be threatened by you.”

The ‘terp had not translated all of his colonel’s words, which was just as well. Mark got the gist of it, including the invitation to perform a certain sex act upon the colonel’s person. In return, he just offered a thin smile. “I’m not making any threats, Colonel. But you have heard of our Predator drones, of course. They are under the control of soldiers who are not under my direct command. If they are ordered to attack a Taliban column that is approaching your checkpoint, well, who can say where exactly that missile might strike?” Mark spread his hands helplessly. “The operators are highly skilled, but from such distances, controlling a missile is not an easy thing to do.”

Behind him, Richards cleared his throat ever so slightly. The adjutant was well-versed in Mark’s moods by now and he knew when to signal his boss that he was getting close to a line that probably shouldn’t be crossed. Mark took the hint.

“Colonel, I am grateful for your time and hospitality. Please extend my regards and those of my government to your superiors. I look forward to meeting with you again. Soon.” When the ‘terp finished the translation, Mark extended a hand. Barazini hesitated, then gripped it firmly. Mark’s grip was just a little firmer. He saw with a bit of pleasure that the Pakistani’s eyes flared slightly. Then Mark released the hand and whipped his up into a parade-ground-perfect salute.

Outside the hut, the sun blazed down, and even here at six thousand feet, it was warm. Mark headed off toward the waiting Humvees, Richards and Zadran on either side. “Okay, Bill, how’d I do in there?”

“Well, Colonel, maybe you pushed him a bit too far on the drone thing.”

“Yeah, maybe, but maybe it’s time we threw the fear of God into these characters. Or at least the fear of getting a Predator missile up their asses. It’s like the NVA and the Ho Chi Minh Trail all over again.”

“If I recall my history, Colonel, President Nixon did something about that, didn’t he?”

They’d reached the command vehicle. Mark turned to his adjutant. “How old are you again, Bill?”

“Thirty-one, sir.” Christ, the man only knew about Vietnam from the history books. Mark himself had been pretty young back then, but he’d talked to a lot of vets who’d spent time in the Land of Bad Things, including a few who’d gone across the border into Cambodia in ’70. Many of them thought that if they’d been allowed to really take the gloves off, and if Congress had displayed any balls, South Vietnam would be alive today. From his own studies back at the Point and since, Mark wasn’t totally convinced of that, but since coming out here he was starting to see the old vets’ perspective.

“Well, look it up when you have the time,” Mark said. “Let’s head back.” They would overnight at FOB O’Neill and head back to Roosevelt the next morning.

Mark rode up front in the second Humvee, with Richards at the wheel and Zadran manning the top-mounted machine gun. Richards drove in silence for about fifteen minutes, then asked the question Mark should’ve known was coming. Richards was an inquisitive guy, and would go far in the Army, provided he asked the right questions, and more importantly knew when to ask them. “Colonel, d’you think we’ll ever go across the border? Into Pakistan?”

“We’ve been doing that for a while now, Bill, with the drones.”

“Well, yeah, but I mean on the ground.”

Mark considered his answer carefully. He knew full well that back in Kabul, the General’s safe at ISAF HQ held detailed plans for incursions into various sections of what the Pakistanis called their Federally Administered Tribal Areas, especially North and South Waziristan. Everybody knew the Taliban and al-Qaida were thick as fleas on a dog over there, doing whatever they pretty much pleased to the locals, using the area as a safe haven that was only occasionally penetrated by American drones for targeted assassinations. Even more rarely, secret missions involving Special Forces teams had sent Americans over the border for recon and the occasional hit. But’s that’s as far as it had gone, and Mark knew it wouldn’t go any further. Not under this administration for sure, and likely not under its successor, either, whoever and whenever that might be. “I doubt it, Bill,” he finally said. “We’ve got our hands full on this side of the border.”

“There’d have to be a helluva buildup if we were to make a major push into there, wouldn’t we?”

“I’d say so.” Mark remembered one planning session with the General and other members of the staff, when they’d tossed around contingencies: using airstrikes with manned aircraft, increasing the number of SF incursions, and finally up to large-scale conventional operations with infantry and armor. The problem was the terrain, very mountainous with few roads, certainly not optimal country for armor. To really do the job right would require infantry, a lot of infantry and lots of helicopters, more than they had available in theater even with Iraq winding down, and everybody around the table that day knew it would never happen. Back in ’70, Nixon had the balls to go into Cambodia, even over-ruling some of his top advisors, but this was a different time, different war, and definitely a different president. Still, it was better to have a plan than not have one, just in case, so they drew one up and put it in the safe. Mark supposed someday it would either get burned or leaked to the press. He imagined himself seeing it on
60 Minutes
around 2040 or so, with Lara Logan interviewing old ISAF officers.

“How many, do you think, Colonel?”

“Tell you what, Bill, let’s just not go there, okay? If we can just keep the lid on over here long enough for the ANA to get up to speed, then we can all go home.”

“Roger that, sir. This is my third deployment, and it would be nice to be stateside for a long time.”

Richards was on his third deployment? Mark had to think a minute about his own. How many now? Counting Desert Storm, then the Balkans…seven. Damn, that was a lot, even spread out over twenty years. No wonder he was starting to think more often about getting out, going home, doing something else besides soldiering.

But what that something else might be, he wasn’t too sure. Well, maybe it was time to start thinking about that. But in the last few days he’d been thinking more about his brother, not about himself. He’d heard nothing since Jim’s call, two days ago.

FOB O’Neill wasn’t a luxurious place, but then very few places in Afghanistan could be classified that way, so it was still a welcome sight as Mark’s Humvee caravan came around the bend in the road. To someone trained in the Cold War era, the HESCO walls looked pathetically flimsy. The FOB would be helpless against a Soviet-style armored assault, and Mark didn’t even want to think about air attack. Over here, thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about enemy tanks and aircraft. The best the Tals could come up with were mortars and the occasional “technicals”, old pickup trucks with machine guns mounted in the box, which were troublesome enough.

They rolled through the front gate and pulled to a stop in front of the main HQ hooch. Like most firebases, they’d built up and around an abandoned Afghan compound that would’ve been the home of an important family back in pre-Soviet days, perhaps even a warlord. Now it was home to a company of Americans trying to help the Afghans enter the brave new world that many of the natives didn’t seem to want.

The FOB’s C.O., Lieutenant Williams, was waiting for them. Mark dismounted and returned his salute. Williams was relatively new in country and still pretty formal, but that was okay. Mark was willing to relax discipline to a certain extent but he still wanted his men to pay attention to the little things. If they started ignoring those, pretty soon they’d start ignoring the big things.

“Welcome back, Colonel. How did it go?”

“About as I expected, George. Anything new come down the pipe?”

“Yes, sir. Urgent message for you to contact ISAF right away.”

That wasn’t a good sign. Mark hustled to the comm shack, trying to think of anything from the latest intel brief that might’ve indicated trouble, something he might’ve overlooked. The on-duty comms sergeant was expecting him. “I’ll get you connected in just a minute, sir.”

Thirty seconds was all it took for Mark to doff most of his gear. He wished he could ditch the helmet for his trusty old field cap, weather-beaten as it was these days, but out here, where there could be incoming mortar rounds any time, you had to stay covered with Kevlar. “Here we go, sir,” the sergeant said, handing Mark a telephone-style handset.

“Colonel Hayes.”

The voice on the other end was scratchy but readable. “Stand by, Colonel, I’m connecting you with the General.” This can’t be good, Mark thought, and that was confirmed a few seconds later.

“Mark, are you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mark, but your brother is missing.”

There was a knock on the door of Mark’s hooch about ten o’clock that night. “Colonel, it’s Richards.”

“Yeah, come in.”

The young captain came in carrying a paper plate covered by a napkin and a tall metal drinking cup. “Sir, I noticed you weren’t at evening chow, so I brought you a sandwich.”

“Thanks, Bill, I appreciate it.” Mark took the plate and cup, setting them on his metal desk next to the laptop. The hooch wasn’t anything special, maybe a dozen feet square. The desk, a couple chairs, and a cot were the only furnishings. Mark didn’t spend much time in here anyway, except in his rack, and saw no reason to get anything bigger or fancier. A couple shelves on the walls held some books and two pictures, one of his son, the other of Mark and his parents on the day he graduated from the Point. “Have a seat,” Mark said.