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Anbar Province

Hunter lay with his eyes closed, half awake, half asleep. He was aware that he was dreaming in Arabic and that made him happy. The unconscious didn't bother messing around with a language it hadn't mastered. As he floated toward greater consciousness, he realized he wasn't dreaming in Arabic, but was listening to it. His forehead throbbed and he remembered the concrete fragment coming at him. He couldn't sense anyone's presence nearby, but he didn't want to take any chances, so he kept his eyes closed and tried to make out what was being said, but the voices were too distant and muted. Then he heard a loud thump and a voice shouting in English.

“Help me! I'm Jackie Nelson. If anyone can hear me, I'll reward you. American dollars. Help me.” The voice was hoarse and it seemed to be coming from the next room.

Muj
. The tangos had somehow snatched him and he knew far too well what they did to their American prey—internet beheadings, bodies dragged through the streets, and severed heads delivered to American bases. He had long ago vowed he would take his own life and as many of theirs as he could before they did anything like that to him.

Lying motionless so he didn't alert any mujahedin guards that he had come to, Hunter peeped, but saw no one, so he opened his eyes and sat up on the stained sleeping mat on a filthy floor. He was still wearing the clothes he had stolen from the Iraqi carjacker. The room was empty and the door was shut, but the window had no bars and no glass. A warm breeze blew through it.

“If you can hear me, help me! Get the Americans. Reward. Dollars. Dinar.” The voice weakened as she repeated herself.

When Hunter stood, the blood rushed from his head and he saw swirls of flashing light and blackness. He sat down again, took a deep breath and waited for his blood pressure to rise. His lips were chapped, his mouth dry and he was hungry, but he was no longer zip-tied. Why had the tangos cut him free? At once he understood: the
muj
weren't his captors—they were his liberators.

Hunter opened the door and stepped into the main room. Most of the outside wall was missing and the gnarled wreckage of a bombed-out car was visible through the hole. A sliver of a mirror clung desperately to the opposite wall, which was pitted with craters from the blast. A small perimeter had been cleared of debris around a makeshift table constructed from a door and saw horses. Scattered about one end of the table were a brick of plastic explosive, wires, detonators, pliers and a Colt long gun. Three men sat around it, each with an AK-47 at his feet, and a teenager leaned against a wall, an AK slung over his shoulder.

Hunter forced his thoughts into Arabic. “
Marhaba
.” He nodded his head in greeting as he waded through the rubble.

“
Marhaba
,” they said, echoing one another as they looked up. Two were twins, probably in their late teens, no older than twenty, and the oldest of the three couldn't have been more than twenty-two.

“Thanks be to Allah that you saved me from the Americans.” Hunter placed his closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. Cries from the trapped American woman drifted through the walls. He ignored the hostage's desperate pleas and wished she would stop before she got them both killed. Any English he heard could break his concentration and cause a deadly slip of the tongue. “I am in your debt.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” the twenty-something one said. He avoided eye contact with Hunter. “Do you have a name? I am Fazul.”

“I go by Mu'tasim,” Hunter said. He had practiced this moment over and over, expecting to someday go deep undercover with the tangos. His Egyptian-accented Arabic was fluent, but he knew there were too many subtleties, too many opportunities to use an awkward word or the improper inflection. “But my given name is Sergei.”

The men laughed. “Sergei. You're Russian?”

“I kill Russians. I am Chechen.”

“Chechen? So that's why the Americans want you. I've trained with Chechens. They know no fear. I've seen a single Chechen with an AK-47 kill an entire platoon of Marines. They shot him, but he kept at them.” Fazul picked up the AK and pointed it at each of his friends, pretending to shoot them one by one. “He killed them all—even the Marines who ran.”

Hunter forced a laugh. “
Allahu akbar
. What else is there to say?”
Other than
“
You fucking lying muj. Marines do not cut and run.
”

“Who are you with, Sergei?”

“I'm on my way home,
insh'allah
—Allah willing. I'm no longer with a cell and if I were, you know I cannot say.”

“No. I mean, which leader do you follow? Abdullah or al-Zahrani?”

Hunter hated politics, but he knew enough about them to understand that he hadn't been captured by ordinary insurgents, but by the much rarer al Qaeda cell—or at least al Qaeda wannabes. The last thing he wanted was to get trapped in the middle of the growing schism inside al Qaeda over bin Laden's successor. He wasn't even certain what that was all about. He had heard rumors that bin Laden had finally died, but those had been floating around for years and he was pretty sure bin Laden was still alive in the secret prison in Afghanistan where he had been held since Hunter's team of operators had captured him in early 2002 in the mountains of Waziristan. The US government had wanted to avoid creating a martyr or rallying al Qaeda supporters into seeking his freedom by increasing attacks on American targets, so it instead made the al Qaeda leader fade away. Hunter wasn't officially read into the project, but he knew that the CIA and Pentagon immediately took joint control of al Qaeda, feeding its lieutenants with useless orders which rendered the organization ineffective. It cost the Administration plenty in terms of political capital because the public believed it still hadn't nabbed bin Laden, but the fiction was a small price to pay to keep the world and America safe.

Hunter didn't know what had happened, but something with the plan had clearly gone wrong over the past year. The best he could figure out was that a couple of bin Laden's more ambitious lieutenants either had figured out the American scheme or simply had sensed a weakened leader and staged a silent coup. Both Abdullah and al-Zahrani had declared bin Laden dead and were now fighting each other for control of al Qaeda. The internal violence in the organization had escalated so much in the past year that the two main factions were inflicting more casualties on each other than on the West, mirroring the Iraqi civil war between Sunni and Shi'a Muslims. Hunter took a deep breath as he looked around the terrorist safe house for clues as to which sect the tangos were with. He found none and said, “I follow the only true heir to bin Laden.”

“Of course.” Fazul smiled. “And his name is?…”

The teenager pushed himself away from the wall, stood straight and pointed his AK at Hunter.

“Long ago in Chechnya I pledged my life to bin Laden, may blessing be upon him. Now my loyalty is with…” Hunter studied them for signs that it was time to go on the offense. If he caught the right moment, he could use Fazul's body to absorb the boy's bullets while he reached for a weapon. He continued, “…al-Zahrani.”

Fazul put his hand on Hunter's shoulder and held it there for a few moments. “You are a wise man, Sergei.”

And a lucky one.

 

Fazul's cell phone started vibrating and a synthetic muezzin beckoned to midday prayers, “
Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Ashhadu an la ilaha illahhah
…”

Hunter knit his eyebrows, then smiled as he stared at the phone. Fazul picked it up, allowing it to finish playing the call to prayer. “It has a timer to play the
adhan
five times a day and it adjusts to the new time each day or if you move into a different location. It even has a direction finder for Mecca.”

“Amazing,” Hunter said. He couldn't bring himself to choke out a few more words to praise their god, even though he knew he should have added them.

Several small rugs were rolled up in a pile along the wall. One of the twins passed them out.

“Give our guest Amir's prayer rug. He no longer needs it. May Allah bless his soul,” Fazul said, his countenance suddenly dropping.

Each tango carried his AK along with his prayer rug to the barren courtyard behind the house and Hunter followed them. A goat gnawed at the sparse scrub and heat rose from the sun-scorched sand. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light. As he had feared, they were in the middle of the desert with no other structures in sight. He could forget about slipping away quietly in the night.

Hunter walked over to a well and picked up the bucket to fetch water for the pre-prayer purification ritual. Fazul grabbed his arm. “No, my friend. It's nearly dry. We have little water. We must use sand.”

To confirm his suspicions that they were Sunni like most of al Qaeda, Hunter paused for a second to see if they washed their hands rather than their faces first in the cleansing. He did the same, first rubbing his hands with sand, then his face, ears, arms and feet. During the first Gulf War when he was in the desert for days with Task Force Ripper, he had used the coarser Saudi sand for a dirt bath, but the powdery Iraqi sand left a dusty coating where the Saudi sand had come away clean. Next he only pretended to rub it on his teeth.

The four mujahedin turned toward Mecca, put their arms in the air and declared Allah's greatness. Hunter listened for other insurgents as he said the prayers along with them, but he heard no other voices. The four to one ratio wasn't great, but he could work with it. All he needed was one opportunity.

His teammates at Force Zulu had thought he was insane, practicing the Muslim prayers over and over until they became second nature. Those drills in both Sunni and Shi'a prayer customs were all that was preventing him from looking like the new guy at a dance class, struggling to mimic the others while tripping over his own feet. He folded his hands over his chest and recited the first verse of the Koran in Arabic.

He bowed.

He stood.

He prostrated himself.

He recited the prayers all the while watching for any opening to take them out. Fazul's rifle was within reach, but the others were slightly off in their timing so that at every moment during the ritual one of them was on a prayer mat within reach of his AK. He could probably take out one or two, but not all of them and not before they got him. He stood, turned to the twin on his right, then Fazul on his left and exchanged the last prayer with each of them. “Peace be unto you and Allah's blessings.”

Yeah, right
.

Anbar Province

Fazul ordered the teenage boy to fetch food and drink for Hunter. He returned after a few minutes carrying a plate mounded over with white cheese, olives and flatbread. He handed it to Hunter who stood near the table, eyeing the AK underneath near Fazul's feet. Fazul was becoming more and more focused upon the bomb he was cobbling together.

“Rubbish.” Fazul studied the markings on a blasting cap, then tossed it onto the floor. “This is useless rubbish. Amir, my bomb-maker, killed himself in an accident a few days ago. We're supposed to be ready for a wedding this afternoon,
insh'allah
—Allah willing.”

“Thoughtful wedding present.” Hunter balanced the plate with his left hand and ate. The cheese was mild and very salty. So were the olives.

“Here. Sit with us.” Fazul pushed aside some tools, clearing a space for Hunter's plate. He picked up the sidearm from the table and set it on his lap.

Hunter sat at the head of the table where Fazul had indicated. He would've preferred a spot beside the ringleader since it would've made an assault easier. “Why strike a wedding and not the American infidels?”

“The families are prominent and they both came out in support of Abdullah. You know the teachings of al-Zahrani, may the Prophet bless him. We first have to clean our own house. Those who follow Abdullah are a pox on us all. Tell me, Sergei, do you know anything about bombs?”

“Enough not to wear one.” He chewed on an olive, taking care not to chomp down on the pit and hurt another tooth.

One of the cell phones was in pieces and Fazul attached blasting cap wires to a circuit board. Then he crimped a wire to the end of a cap and taped the wire to a small battery. Fazul looked up at Hunter. “Where were you trained?”

“I was in camps in Afghanistan.”
Where I killed fuckers like you.

“Those days must have been glorious. Had I only been born earlier,
insh'allah
.”

“Where did you train?” Hunter said.

“Uzbekistan.”

Hunter had never heard of al Qaeda bases in the former Soviet Republic. During the early Afghan campaign, the Uzbeks allowed the US to take over former Soviet bases, but the arrangement dissolved after their government massacred a few hundred protesters and the US objected. Radical Islam scared the crap out the Uzbek leaders, but it wouldn't be the first time a dictatorship played both sides. Pakistan had it down to a fine art.

“Uzbekistan? The Uzbek government sleeps with the Americans and prohibits teaching of true Islam,” Hunter said.

“Not anymore. Al-Zahrani has an arrangement. As long as we keep to ourselves, we are most welcome—for a price, I'm sure.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Hunter said and grinned. “Where is the Uzbek camp?”

Fazul laughed. “If you showed me a map, I could not find Uzbekistan. The camp was a hole in the desert. I saw nothing but sand and voles.” Fazul took the slab of plastic explosive and sunk the cap into the Semtex.

Hunter hoped Fazul really did know what he was doing, but his trembling hands hinted otherwise. He set the bomb down and looked into Hunter's eyes. “You ask many questions, my friend.”

Hunter felt his body tense up and forced a deep breath to relax himself. “I was in Uzbekistan as a child, when it was part of the Soviet Union. I remember standing with my Young Pioneer group in Samarqand. The turquoise domes of the mosques, they were like nothing I had ever seen. At that moment, I realized that Islam had a glorious past and the communists were lying to us. I wanted to go in and pray, but I was told it was forbidden. The mosques were museums.”

“Patience. The Russians will pay one day, along with the Americans.” Fazul looked intensely at Hunter for a little too long.

 

A few minutes later the boy returned with a tray carrying glasses of tea and a bowl of sugar. The sugar had ants crawling in it, but the
muj
didn't seem to mind. Fazul stopped playing with the explosives to scoop up a teaspoon of sugar and drop it into Hunter's tea glass.

Hunter could never figure out why Iraqis didn't use cups with handles for hot beverages. The tea glass burned his fingers, but he knew better than to show weakness and set it down—or to fish out the ants now swimming in the brew. The first sip was hot enough to scorch the hide off a camel and it singed his taste buds. He smiled and complimented them on the excellent tea.

The twins picked up their weapons and stepped into the room with the American hostage, leaving Hunter alone with Fazul and the teenager, who still carried an AK slung over his shoulder.

“No! Stop! No!” The American woman screeched. “No!”

Without thinking, Hunter grit his teeth and pain from the tooth immediately electrified his mouth. He searched for options, fighting to conceal his emotions while white-hot anger seared his gut. At Fort Bragg, Hunter had spent long hours with his team day after day running through live-fire hostage rescue exercises in the Force Zulu shooting house. Suddenly their worst-case scenarios seemed so naïve.

The boy looked toward the door and laughed. Then he turned to Fazul. “May I go, too? I never get my turn.”

Ignoring the boy's whines, Fazul fiddled with the wires of a blasting cap fastened to a AAA battery. He sat in the line of fire between Hunter and the boy's AK. Hunter eyed a screwdriver laying on the table and he inched his hand toward it while he watched Fazul sink the blasting cap into the Semtex. Hunter would need the full force of his right arm to shove the screwdriver into Fazul's temple, so he would have to use his left one to grab the gun from the terrorist's lap to take out the boy before he could fire the AK. He figured that the twin waiting his turn at the woman would come running out of the bedroom with his AK before Hunter would have time to switch hands. He was glad that he had trained so hard shooting lefty.

The woman's screeches grew fainter, more haunting.

Hunter snatched up a screwdriver and lunged across the table. His chair fell to the floor. At the last moment, he saw Fazul with a wire in each hand, moving them toward one another, about to close the circuit and accidentally detonate the bomb.

 

Hunter let the screwdriver fall to the floor as he seized Fazul's hairy wrists and held them apart.

“
Allahu akbar
. Praise be to Allah. You almost detonated it,” Hunter said before the boy could react. He then pulled the yellow wire from Fazul's hand, gave it a tug and the cap pulled out of the Semtex. He reached over to the battery and ripped the tape off, separating the wires from it.

Alerted by the commotion, one of the twins ran out of the bedroom and pointed his assault rifle at Hunter.

Hunter and Fazul stared one another in the eyes without moving. Then Fazul glanced down at the screwdriver and Hunter recognized the flash of doubt.

“I kept you from blowing yourself up,” Hunter said.

Fazul was shaking. “You saved my life. Thanks be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate.”

Grunts and screams came from the bedroom. The one twin was still going at her. Hunter hated himself as he tried to block out her screams and said, “Yes, thanks be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate.”

“Come.” Hunter followed, aware that the teenager was behind him, carrying his weapon. Fazul walked over to the doorway to the room where the woman was being held. Her blouse was ripped and she was naked from the waist down. Her legs and arms were covered with fresh red bruises and older ones that had turned shades of yellow and brown. “Now I reward you.”

“But I'm supposed to be after Gamal! Not him!” The boy said.

“Gamal! Off her! Now!” Fazul pounded Gamal on his back as if he were beating a stubborn donkey. “Off! I said off her!”

Gamal ignored him and continued to hump her. Fazul picked up his AK and whacked him with it in the kidneys. Gamal rolled off her, reaching for his back.

“Why did you do that?”

“Obey me.” Fazul kicked him.

The woman's shoulder-length brown hair was matted from dirt and tears. Her lips were parched and cracked and her eyes sunken. The woman needed fluids badly. She turned on her side with her back to them and moaned. If she had been an animal, Hunter would've shot her to put her out of her misery.

“My friend, here is your reward. You may have her.” Fazul stretched his arm toward the woman as if presenting a gift.

“No. It is
haram,
forbidden to know a woman who is not your wife.”

“The Prophet, peace be upon him, blessed temporary marriages, particularly for those away from their wives when on
jihad
. It is
halal
. Declare your
mut'a
and take her. Then it is pure.” Fazul looked into Hunter's eyes and grimaced. “My friend, you are not thinking of dishonoring me and refusing my gift?”

The room where they were holding the American woman had to be well over a hundred degrees and it reeked of stale urine and feces. Sweat dripped down Hunter's face and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his dishdashah.

The twins and the teenage
muj
blocked the doorway. They carried their weapons and so did Fazul. Hunter was helpless to try and help the woman without getting both of them killed. Insulting Fazul by refusing to rape her could have the same effect. He understood the scenario well. When his unit had been crosstrained at the Farm, his CIA instructors had spent the better part of an afternoon making them role play the dilemma. He had gone along with the playacting, but he had always believed that if this happened to him, he would be clever enough to figure out an innovative solution.

Now it was for real and Hunter Stone saw no way out.