The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (3 page)

4

I
caught a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye and froze.
This
was the time. I was sure of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head, looking at our kitchen counter. Sure enough, I saw the enemy, crouched and eating a crumb. The damn bane of my existence. A mouse that had been terrorizing my house with turds and torn-open bread loafs.

I slowly swiveled my head to the front door, listening. I heard nothing. Jennifer had an irrational soft spot for “innocent” foragers, but she was probably a good five minutes behind me on our run. Five minutes to crush the skeevy life out of that damn spawn of Satan, dispose of the carcass where she wouldn’t find it, and then act like I was just doing postworkout stretching. Plenty of time.

My hands and arms rigidly held just as they had been when I heard the noise, I rotated my head back. Like I did on operations, I calculated the available options. The little bastard was on the left side of the sink. He could run right, in which case he’d fall into the stainless-steel basin. Good for me. He could run left, in which case he’d round a corner and hit the plethora of cookbooks Jennifer had stacked on the counter, get behind them, and be gone. Bad. I needed to push him right.

I shuffled ever so slowly. The Satan-mouse continued crunching on his find. I got closer. I leaned over to a drawer and slowly pulled it open. I glanced inside, looking for a weapon. I saw a small mallet.
Apparently used for some type of cooking, it had spikes on one side and a flat head on the other. The spikes would do. I pulled it out slowly, like I was playing that old game Operation and afraid to touch the sides of the drawer.

The mouse continued where he was, oblivious.

I inched forward and caught a flash of movement to my right. A blur that jumped to the countertop on the other side of the sink. It was Knuckles, our mange-ridden cat. The same one who for some reason didn’t give a shit about mice, and another rescue by Jennifer when the cat was found digging in our trash can.

I stood with the mallet raised, not daring to breath. The cat began licking her paws. Glancing at me with disdain. I thought very hard about using the mallet on her. I hated the beast, and the feeling was mutual. I was convinced that the only reason the mouse lived was precisely because that damn cat was spiting me. She brought all manner of dead things to my door, but now, with a mouse looking her in the eye five feet away, she does nothing?

I returned to my prey, inching forward ever so slowly. The mouse crept left, taking the bread with it. I analyzed again. It was moving into the corner and wouldn’t escape unless it made the turn behind the cookbooks, although my strike would be exponentially lengthened. The corner was better than nothing.

I advanced, watching the little bastard nibbling away, feeling triumph in my veins. No more would I be awakened worrying about a burglar because of a noise. No more would I find small turds in my shoes.

The front bell rang, and I could hear the door open. I froze, watching the mouse. He didn’t move. I turned around and saw Knuckles, my second-in-command.

What the hell. He isn’t supposed to arrive for three more hours.

He started to talk and I hissed. He shut up, giving me a look of confusion. I pointed the mallet. He grinned.

I crept closer and closer, getting within striking distance. I raised my weapon, about to close the deal, and heard, “Pike! Don’t you dare!”

The damn spawn of Satan escaped behind the cookbooks and I turned, now trying to explain the mallet.

Breathing heavily, having just finished her run and entered the door my traitorous teammate had left open, Jennifer said, “Tell me you weren’t going to bash that defenseless animal. Tell me your word means something.”

I said, “My word is my bond. I would never do such a thing.”

Okay, actually I said, “I . . . uhhh . . . I . . . wasn’t going to hurt it.”

She said, “Pike! Really? We got the live traps. We talked about this.”

Yeah, we had. She’d made me buy these stupid traps that capture the mouse alive, so we could return it to the “wild”—read someone else’s house—and they didn’t work for shit. We might as well have put out strips of cardboard on the floor and wished for Peter Pan to show up. The damn mouse had been able to take out every bit of bait and had never been caught. And now it never would be.

Knuckles picked up our mangy cat and started cooing, “Hey, Knuckles, how ya been.”

Yes, our beast was named after my teammate. It was supposed to embarrass him, but it backfired. The cat loved him and
still
hated me.

Jennifer stood in the kitchen doorway and glowered at me. Which, of course, made me feel like a heel. As she knew. I threw the mallet on the counter and said, “The mouse is a health hazard.”

Jennifer, a hand on her hip, shook her head and said, “Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”

Knuckles broke free, jumping down. Knuckles the cat, that is. Knuckles the man said, “I don’t know what just happened here, but I’m pretty sure it falls in line with my proscription against teammates getting involved with each other.”

Jennifer smiled, held out her arms, and said, “Sorry. It’s Pike’s fault. He’s been trying to murder that poor thing forever.”

Knuckles grinned and embraced her, saying, “I’d whack that little bugger in the head too.”

Jennifer pulled out of the embrace and he backpedaled, “But it’d mean I don’t get to be the date. Remember, I’m the sensitive one.”

She smiled at him, then glared at me. I said, “I can be sensitive too. I can. But I don’t look like a fashion-model hippie. That’s why he’s the date.”

Which was true. Knuckles would fit in on a billboard for Abercrombie & Fitch. Flowing black hair, chiseled features, and chiseled abs. Whenever we went out, the number of women who threw themselves at him made me sick, because I knew, in his heart, he was a rodent-smashing knuckle dragger. But he was smart enough to play it off with Jennifer. And handsome enough to pull off our assigned mission.

Not that I’m saying I wasn’t.

The mission itself wasn’t dangerous, but it
was
going to be fun. We were detailed to check out a meeting between some Qatari interests and a shipping magnate from Brazil. Apparently, the Brazilian wanted to start mining a rare earth element called neodymium and was looking for investors, because a deposit had been found in his country. Neodymium was something that created very, very powerful magnets, which wouldn’t be a concern, except that such magnets were used in every single bit of modern technology in existence, from wind turbines to cell phones to hybrid cars. Currently, the major producer was China, which caused its own problems when they shut down production on a whim, but now the United States was wondering where Qatar was going by investing in the endeavor. Especially since we didn’t have a mine in our own country. We were dependent on foreign supply.

At the end of the day, it wasn’t a traditional Taskforce problem.
We primarily dealt with terrorism. We targeted groups on the State Department’s official list of Foreign Terrorist Organizations, but our missions had been bleeding out into other areas for a couple of years because of our skill. And our ability to remain anonymous.

Two things made the beltway in Washington soil their pants when a paramilitary covert action was proposed: One—could they do it? And two—would it leak? On both counts, the traditional intelligence and military architecture had been beat up over the years. The CIA, focused primarily on intelligence collection, didn’t have the in-house talent for the intricacies of kill or capture missions, and the DoD, focused primarily on overt combat operations with an enormous overhead bureaucracy, didn’t have the ability to keep such missions secret. Put together, they had the expertise and the security if they’d quit fighting among themselves like schoolkids. Which is where my organization came in.

Created after the terrorist attacks on 9/11, off the books for anyone looking, we’d been given the charter to take it to the terrorists, but with strict left and right limits. Now folks in the know were broadening those limits. Using us to get things done that weren’t exactly within our charter.

I didn’t mind, because I’d argued for the blending of intel and direct action since forever, but I’d be lying if this mission didn’t cause me concern. Not because of the mission but because of the ramifications. Like case law, this would start defining who we were, and who we were was only as strong as
who
we were.

Replace people like me with something less, and the damn thing would be out of control. I’d lived through enough scandals in Special Operations to know that we were all only one man away from disaster.

But that was someone else’s concern. For me, I got to take Knuckles and Jennifer to the Cayman Islands to attend a party. Literally dressed in formal wear, just like James Bond.

Jennifer said, “Can I go pack? Or are you going to try and kill the mouse?”

“Damn it,” I said, “I wasn’t going to harm him. Get packed and cleaned up. The plane leaves in four hours.”

She gave me her disapproving teacher stare, then disappeared into the bedroom. Knuckles moved to the fridge and popped a Coke. He said, “You really suck at this.”

The cat came close to my legs and I tried to flick it away. And missed. I said, “You’d better not suck on the mission. I’m not sending Jennifer in just to watch you get compromised.”

He rolled his eyes and took a swig. He said, “Whatever. You’re just pissed it’s me doing the mission.”

I grew indignant and said, “Don’t give me that. You guys go into that place, and it’s all you. She can’t fight her way out by herself.”

“Pike, I got it. I don’t think you do. This is a cakewalk for her.”

Which really aggravated me. We were going off on a tangent I hadn’t expected, and I should have just shut up. I didn’t. Any conversation about her always brought my back up. “What’s that mean? I know what she can do. I’m the one who trained her. I’m the one who brought her in. I just want to make sure you understand.”

“Understand what? That you don’t trust her on her own? That’s a switch.”

I floundered for a moment, because that’s not what I meant. I think. He said, “I saw the Decoy tape. I saw what she’s capable of.”

Decoy was a teammate who had been murdered on an operation right in front of Jennifer, shot by a Russian who was about six foot six. The bear of a man had then tried to kill her. And had failed. It had been caught on a surveillance camera and had become Taskforce lore, surreptitiously passed around the team rooms on a thumb drive. I’d seen it myself, right after it happened, and it was the human condition at the most basic level. Survival of the fittest. It wasn’t pretty, but in the end, only one person had stood back up. Jennifer.

I’d never watched the tape again, precisely because of my connection to her. The damn thing gave me nightmares. Which was probably unfair, and exactly what Knuckles was trying to tell me. Jennifer had earned her sleepless nights because of the action, tossing in the dark like a thousand other Operators from a thousand different hits. I had not, and was doing her a disservice by trying to protect her.

I said, “Just don’t let her get in trouble. This sounds like fun, but it might be dangerous. Sometimes even
we
get in over our heads. Treat her like you would me.”

Knuckles laughed and said, “So I should put a muzzle on her mouth?”

“No, damn it. You know what I mean.”

Knuckles gave me a long stare. I heard Jennifer moving around in the bedroom, throwing things into a suitcase. He said, “Pike, she’ll be fine.”

I said nothing else, just nodding. The moment passed and he said, “Anyway, it’s not going to matter. This is a boondoggle. What’s a Brazilian billionaire got to do with terrorism? Who cares if he’s talking to some guy from Qatar?”

5

S
harif al-Attiya watched the footage of the US secretary of state until he waved to the cameras and entered a car, Sharif’s son, Haider al-Attiya, closing the door. He clicked off the wide-screen and said, “He did pretty well.”

Sharif’s assistant, Tarek al-Attiya, nodded and said, “He’s learning.”

Assistant
was a little bit of a misnomer. Tarek was more a confidant. Twenty years Sharif’s junior, he was not immediate family, but he was of the same tribe, and he was shrewd, in both the ways of money and the ways of politics. The latter skill was critical in the state of Qatar and had facilitated Sharif’s rise despite the lack of a royal name.

Neither man was a member of the al-Thani tribe, and thus not automatically provided access to the inner circle of the ruling party—but also not placed in the line of fire from the multiple coups and machinations that name brought. No, Sharif was happy to remain safe as a trusted member of the business development sector of the extremely wealthy Qatar Investment Authority.

Since 2005, the emir of Qatar, through the QIA, had been aggressively investing in diverse portfolios throughout the world, touching everything from European football teams to pumping millions of dollars into Washington, DC, real estate. They invested in infrastructure
in France, owned the venerable Harrods department store in London, had a majority stake in Miramax films in Hollywood, and were partners in energy production in Greece. They ran under the radar for most of it, with the world recognizing only the name Al Jazeera, the television network founded and owned by the Qatari government. They were everywhere, having a stake in just about every major bank in the world and many other financial institutions—including an almost 10 percent stake in the London stock exchange—and Sharif’s job was to seek new investment opportunities.

A perfect cover for his true passion: defending Islam and spreading jihad.

Sharif stood, walking from behind his desk to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city of Doha, the cranes and metal buildings blooming like weeds, changing the skyline almost daily.

He said, “He’s learning, but not fast enough. That activity in Afghanistan was almost a debacle. He’s still naïve. Still wants to carry the gun instead of work behind the scenes.”

Tarek said, “Like his father used to be.”

Sharif’s face clouded. “Don’t confuse my journey to fight the Soviets with his. What I did was out of duty. He did it craving a sense of adventure.”

Soothingly, Tarek said, “Sharif. Sir. You are cut from the same cloth. He did what he did for the same reasons as you.
Both
reasons.”

“He was supposed to just deliver the money. Create a conduit to fund the Islamic State in Afghanistan. Sow the seeds of chaos. Not go fighting.”

“He had to get it out of his system. As did you.”

“He almost got killed! And he killed American Special Forces.”

“He showed the Islamic State he has mettle. They trust him now.”

Sharif grunted, saying nothing.

Tarek said, “Is killing the Americans so bad?”

Sharif turned and said, “Only if they can connect it to us. They
have long memories. When I fought there, I was a part of a group that killed Spetsnaz. We cheered for a day, and then were hunted for a year. They caught some of us.”

His face grew distant, lost in an ugly memory.

Tarek said, “He’s home now. They all are. Let the Americans hunt. They won’t find anything.”

Sharif waved his hand and said, “The landscape
here
is not the same. They don’t need to kill us with an iron rod, like my men endured. They can kill us with a diplomatic démarche. Times change. The emir will throw us to the wolves if we are seen as helping the fighters.”

Qatar was a Sunni state that adhered to Sharia law. They followed a competing agenda of integrating into the greater world system while actively funneling help to the very jihadists who had sworn vengeance on that system. Whether it was to curry favor to protect themselves from the jihadists or simply because of inherent desire was anyone’s guess. Eventually, with the Syrian civil war and the rise of the Islamic State, the issue had come to a head, with the Sunni states of the Gulf Cooperation Council, headed by Saudi Arabia, breaking ranks with Qatar, and the United States and the European Union starting to rumble, no longer willing to look the other way.

Under pressure, at first Qatar eschewed governmental backing, proclaiming their innocence while turning a blind eye to wealthy government members individually supporting various jihadist groups. Then, when evidence of the secret deals began to mount, they began taking overt action, the state system trumping jihadist fervor.

It was a fine line, and everyone on the world stage knew it. Qatar was still the closest state system that could penetrate into the world of the jihadi, having proven that by brokering the release of the captured US soldier Bowe Bergdahl for five Taliban terrorists held in Guantánamo Bay, along with numerous ransom negotiations from a plethora of European countries for members held by various groups,
but the world couldn’t abide a government that had such close ties to killers. At least overt ties. Because of it, Qatar had taken a strong and vocal hand against support.

Tarek glanced at his phone, reading a text message, and said, “He’s in the building. On the way up.”

Sharif nodded, caressing his neatly groomed beard. He said, “Should we continue?”

“Yes. You have the method. You send money all over the world, and Greece is the perfect place. Well, Istanbul would be better, but Greece is good enough. Stay out of Turkey. Too political. Greece is lying on the ground, bleeding. They need us, and we can use their banks.”

Sharif nodded and the door opened, allowing in his son, Haider, and two others. Sharif turned, a smile on his face, which faded to a scowl when he saw the entourage. He said, “Please, wait outside.”

Dressed in traditional Gulf attire, like Haider himself, both men nodded with downcast eyes and exited, closing the door behind them.

Sharif said, “What are they doing here?”

Haider, a tall, hawk-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard, said, “What do you mean? They’re with me. They’re my security.”

“You don’t need
security
here.” Sharif spat the word out with disdain.

Haider faltered and said, “They protected me in Afghanistan. They’re my friends. You’ve met them before. What’s wrong?”

Tarek glanced at Sharif and said, “Your father has concerns with them. They are bastards, yes? No father?”

Exasperated, Haider said, “Yes. Yes, you both know that. We’ve been friends for a long time. They have a father. He just chooses not to claim them. Sometimes I feel the same way.”

Sharif took that in without a ripple and said, “‘Friends from school’ does not get them into our business. Friends, you play football with after studies. You don’t invite them into your world.”

Haider said, “I trust them. Without them I would have died in Afghanistan. Father, you have Tarek. I have them.”

Sharif bristled and Tarek stepped between them, breaking the tension. He said, “Yes. He does. Let’s hope their counsel is as good as mine.”

Sharif chuckled, and Tarek continued. “So what did you learn today? Is the United States willing to support our investment in Greece? Will we get pushback?”

Now happy to inflate his meeting, Haider said, “No, not at all. The crisis in Greece has reached a boiling point, and the EU isn’t backing down. That leaves foreign investors to float them. The United States isn’t going to step in in an official capacity, but they don’t want to see the euro fall apart. They would love for us to invest, if only to stave off the inevitable.”

Sharif said, “Good. Good. So we can start inflating our accounts in Alpha Bank without fear of the United States protesting?”

“Yes, but that’s not the best news.”

Not hearing, Sharif said, “I want to start using those banks. I want to start transferring funds employing the usual mechanisms. Siphon off the same amount. Small enough to remain under the radar but large enough to do some good. As we did in London. As you’re going to do in the Cayman Islands. We need to get you there as well.”

Haider said, “Father, you didn’t hear the best part.”

Looking at a calendar, Sharif said, “We missed the visit to the Caymans because of the secretary of state’s visit, but you can go the week after next. After you solidify your Greek contacts.”

Haider said, “We didn’t miss the Cayman trip. I sent Ahmed.”

Sharif snapped back to Haider and said, “What?”

Haider ducked his head and said, “I sent Ahmed Mansoor. I told you I trust him.”