Strike Force Bravo (16 page)

That's why Kazeel felt paralyzed, a prisoner in his own house. Unable to move.

It was now the beginning of the sixth day. Midnight had arrived and the wind was howling again.

Kazeel was lying not on his water bed but on his prayer mat, looking through the room's ceiling window. The stars were out and the moon had risen over the eastern peaks, but these celestial events were lost on him.

He was not counting stars overhead but rather the number of insects crawling on his ceiling. It was a rare night when he couldn't get to sleep. But this had been going on for five nights now. More than 100 hours with little more than a doze or two. It was a new and very unpleasant condition for Kazeel. He'd personally murdered more than three dozen people in his lifetime, many of them brutally, many with his bare hands. He'd been responsible for the deaths of thousands more in the terrorist acts he'd planned and executed. Yet none of this had ever disturbed his sleep. He had no conscience, so there was nothing that could keep him awake.

But these days anytime he closed his eyes the ghosts of those he'd killed would flash before him, some as corpses, some not. And mixed in, always, was the scowling red face of the American soldier who'd laid his gun muzzle briefly on his nose back in Manila.
Dave Hunn!…Queens, New York!…Remember me….
This was a vision Kazeel could not shake. There was hate inside this American. Real hate and real emotion, which was strange, because Kazeel never believed Americans
had
any emotions. Then again, that had been the closest he'd ever been to a real-live American. This man Hunn scared him deeply and Kazeel knew he would never give up in his pursuit of him. Again, that was how the Crazy Americans worked. They hunted you, they found you, and then they killed you, very painfully. Simple as that.

Kazeel checked his Rolex watch. It wasn't even one in the morning yet….

He started counting bugs again. He had six more hours of this hell to endure.

But suddenly came redemption from the darkness. It arrived with the sound of his cell phone ringing.

The voice on the other end was distant and distorted.

“Hoozan!” it was calling to him, using his boyhood name. “Wake up! I have good news!”

“Who is this?” Kazeel asked.

“It is Wabi, your white-haired friend and brother.”

Kazeel cleaned out his ear. Wabi's voice sounded different.

“Good news, my friend,” Wabi said. “You'll soon have new eyes watching over you.”

Kazeel shot straight up on his prayer mat. “Is it how we had spoken?” he asked anxiously.

“They have blue eyes,” Wabi replied, his voice smug but still distorted. “Though friend and enemy alike will be hard pressed to see them.”

“And they have no qualms about who they may have to fight?”

“I've been told these people were in Kosovo, Bosnia, and Serbia and became millionaires for it,” was the reply. “You know recent history, my friend. Do you not think that surviving, indeed
thriving,
in those places would give them the mettle to keep you safe?”

“Certainly better than most,” Kazeel replied. “But where do these men call home exactly?”

“Let me put it this way,” Wabi replied. “These men are the best because they are from a place that has been called the worst….”

Kazeel did not have to hear anything more after that. He thanked Wabi and said good-bye.

Then he settled back down and finally drifted to sleep, knowing that starting tomorrow he would be well protected again.

 

It was just before noon the next day when the three black Range Rovers climbed up the mountain road, heading for Kazeel's compound.

The trucks' windows were tinted to opaque and each had a small forest of cell antennas poking up from the roof. They arrived and parked three abreast. They turned off their engines in unison; then every door on each of the three vehicles opened, again in unison. Five men stepped out.

Four were huge, towering over Kazeel's five-seven frame. They were wearing identical black combat uniforms, with plenty of ammo belts, utility packs, and night-fighting gear but no insignia. Each man was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle, a Magnum pistol in a shoulder holster, and a gigantic knife in his boot.

All five were also wearing black ski masks, with holes cut out for their eyes and nothing else. Kazeel met them by his back door. They formed a line in front of him, and each snapped off a smart salute, his first and last for the new boss.

Kazeel didn't even have to say a word. He already felt psychically connected to them. Their body language said it all: they were ruthless, unwavering. Their regimentation was hugely impressive, yet they didn't seem real somehow. They were more like Robocops, characters from one of Kazeel's favorite American movies. Having them watch his back was a fond wish come true.

His new bodyguard detail hailed from what many thought was the worst place on earth: a place called Chechnya. How fanatical were the Chechyans? There was a slang term going around the Gulf these days, being called Chechnya meant you were a “totally crazy person.” According to Wabi, in addition to their mercenary work these blood-and-guts fighters had been battling the Russians for nearly 10 years in their own country. For the most part, they'd embarrassed the old Soviet empire almost as badly as it had been in Afghanistan twenty years before. What made them even more different was that these blue-eyed Chechyans were also Muslim fundamentalists, some of them even more radical than Kazeel and his Al Qaeda cohorts.

This particular group was known as the Dragos. They were famous for two things: their masks, which were for intimidation purposes but also so the men could never be identified even by the one they were protecting (
You don't
want
to see our faces
was a favorite Drago phrase), and, more important, their uncanny ability to extract those they were protecting from some of the tightest, most dangerous predicaments. Assassination attempts. Predator drone strikes. Carpet bombings. The Dragos always managed to pull their client through.

Kazeel was smiling so wide now his cheeks hurt. These men would make a great match for the Crazy Americans, he thought. If the two teams were to ever meet up, it would be the battle of the century, at the very least.

One Drago finally stepped forward and bowed a bit. He addressed Kazeel in perfect Arabic. He introduced himself simply as Alexi.

“I understand you want to travel soon?” he asked.

“I should be in Sat Put tomorrow at dawn,” Kazeel replied. He'd called Bahzi that morning.

“Who knows you are coming?”

“The people I have to meet,” Kazeel told him. “And their security people.”

The man looked over his shoulder at the Roland missile launcher. Then he turned back to Kazeel, who suddenly felt very embarrassed.

“Did you make any of your arrangements on a cell phone?”

Kazeel was taken back by the question. He rarely kept a cell phone longer than 24 hours these days. This procedure had been drummed into all the Al Qaeda hierarchy from the very beginning. Simply put, the United States could intercept cell phone calls and track their user. That was a quick way to get a Hellfire missile dropped on one's head.

But Kazeel hadn't dumped his phone now in nearly a month. He couldn't. Just about everything having to do with the next big attack on America was locked into the photofone's extended memory. Kazeel had nowhere else to put it.

“I'm sorry, but yes, I did use my cell,” Kazeel finally admitted. “But it was a necessity. Time was running while I was waiting to hear from you. I had to set up the meeting quickly.”

“It's fine,” the bodyguard replied with a touch of good nature, a big surprise. “No problem at all. Can you leave in two hours? It's a fourteen-hour drive to Sat Put and it's best that we sleep along the way.”

Early the next morning, Kazeel was standing on a small mountain overlooking the village of Sat Put.

He'd spent the night up in these hills, sleeping soundly again as the Dragos kept watch over him. He awoke with the sun, refreshed despite the grueling drive to get here the night before. He shunned any morning hygiene and told the Dragos that they should proceed into town immediately.

Alexi, the lead Drago, had accompanied Kazeel on the trip down from the Pushi, riding with him in the backseat of the middle Range Rover. (Uni rode in the car behind.) Kazeel and Alexi discussed many things on the way. The success of 9/11. The failure of Hormuz. The embarrassment of Tonka Tower, which Kazeel claimed to have no hand in. But most of all, they talked about Bahzi. Kazeel told the Drago leader about Bahzi's habit of staging ambushes near the site of his business dealings, sometimes absconding with the money if the person who'd just paid him happened to get iced. Yet when he did make a legitimate deal, the Iraqi's prices were usually fair and the merchandise always top quality. You just never knew which Bahzi you were going to sit down with.

For reasons like this, the Dragos insisted on taking all three vehicles to the meeting; in case one or two broke down or were damaged, they would have an option for escape. Kazeel liked that kind of thinking. He also liked the transportation. These weren't ordinary Range Rovers, Alexi had revealed to him along the way. They were actually Italian Fiat armored cars with Range Rover bodies
fitted over
them. They were moving arsenals as well. The Dragos carried everything from shotguns, to grenade launchers, to antiaircraft guns inside them and more. The trucks' armored siding could take a .50-caliber round fired less than 25 yards away. Their windows were made of glass and epoxy 17 layers thick. The tires weren't tires at all. They were steel wheels.

 

The streets of Sat Put were empty as the three Range Rovers pulled into town.

It was a very small, very desolate place, surrounded by sawtooth peaks covered permanently in dirty snow. In anticipation of this meeting, the local warlords had ordered everyone into their houses at sunset the night before, telling them not to come out, open a shutter, or even light a candle until noon. No one in the town would dare defy such a decree.

There were only a few streets here, all unpaved and muddy from the hooves of many horses. There was just a dozen buildings in all. These, with a few tents on the periphery, made up almost the entirety of Sat Put.

Of course, the place had a mosque, a rather grand one. Located near the center of town, just off the small avenue heading south, it was the Mosque of Ali Nasra, named after Muhammad's favorite son no less. It was overly huge and ornate and looked very out of place among the frozen squalor. Yet the temple was perfect for Kazeel's purposes. He'd been in the terror business for 12 years, and yes, it
was
a business. Whenever a really big deal had to go down, such as for arms or bioweapons, there was no better place to do the transaction than inside a mosque.

 

The first Range Rover screeched to a halt in front of the Ali Nasra.

Two armed men were peeking out of the mosque's front door. These were Bahzi's men; both looked unkempt and unfed. Kazeel's bodyguards smartly deployed themselves around his Range Rover, as always, the middle vehicle. Their eyes were moving, looking out from behind their masks, trying to see everything at once. It was cold and some snow was blowing around. And it was very quiet. Kazeel wanted to get inside fast.

But when he tried to open his door he realized one of the Dragos was holding it shut. Kazeel pushed harder, but the man stayed firm. Then he held up his hand, indicating Kazeel should not move.

“Why? What's the problem?” Kazeel yelled at him through the 17-layer glass.

The bomb went off a second later.

It was in the building across the street, an abandoned grain silo. The blast was so powerful it nearly tipped Kazeel's car over. Every window in every building on the street was blown out. The sound of the blast reverberated through the small town like a roll of thunder.

Kazeel was thrown across the backseat by the concussion, smashing his head on the truck's rear window. Suddenly the back door opened and one of the bodyguards jumped on top of him. Gunfire rang out. Two Dragos ran by the rear of the truck, firing their weapons into the burning building across the street. Ignoring the danger, they poured it on with AK-47s, and grenade-throwing rifles. Suddenly the snowy street was awash in tracer fire. Kazeel was astonished.
Where have such brave men been all my life?
he found himself thinking anxiously.

The gunfire lasted for nearly a minute; then it died away. The bodyguard waited about ten more seconds, then finally climbed off Kazeel and allowed him to sit up. Kazeel saw three things at once: the building across the street from him was gone, his bodyguards were ringing his truck with their bodies, forming a human barrier between Kazeel and further mayhem, and Bahzi's men, cowering behind the doors of the mosque.

Another Drago yanked Kazeel out of the vehicle.

“Inside!” the man growled at him. “Now!”

He was hustled up the stairs and through the mosque's door, two more Dragos practically carrying the enormous Uni right behind him. The Dragos pushed Bahzi's men aside and led Kazeel and his
shuka
down into the basement to a safe room located in the center of the structure. It had 12-foot-thick walls and 15 feet of concrete for a ceiling. It also had seven separate exits, a labyrinth of escape tunnels should the occupant get advance word that something really bad—like a U.S. air strike—was on the way. Around the Middle East, these places were known as Saddam Rooms. Just about every grand mosque had one.

Kazeel was visibly shaken but not hurt. Only dumb luck was keeping him from going into shock. Was that bomb meant for him? Or Bahzi? Or both of them? Or neither? Why would Bahzi try to kill him
before
the transaction was made?

At the moment, it really didn't matter. Had the Dragos not acted the way they did, Kazeel knew he'd be dead right now.

Just before entering the safe room—this was the pre-arranged site of their meeting—Kazeel asked the Chechyans to stop for a moment, so he could catch his breath. Uni, too, was trying to regain his composure. Per their custom, the
shuka
would wait outside while the quick business was conducted. His role in the deal was yet to come.

Kazeel calmed himself down; Alexi was right beside him, giving him strength. The Drago assured Kazeel that they would be safe here for about fifteen minutes. Then, by security procedure, it would be time to leave. Kazeel pushed his robes back up on his shoulders and kicked off his filthy sandals. “This will be complete in half that time,” he said. “I promise….”

Then he walked into the room.

Bahzi was already there. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room. Spread out in front of him were cups of tea and copies of
Time, Newsweek,
and
Mad,
all adorned with Kazeel's image. As usual, Bahzi looked as big and ugly as something from a
Star Wars
movie. He'd been curiously safe here, inside the huge bombproof basement, when the blast went off. Kazeel walked over to him, helped him up, and kissed him twice on each cheek, mumbling: “Allah be praised….”

“Brother—
are you hurt?
” Bahzi asked him with feigned concern, still holding him in a bear hug.

“I am here, aren't I?” Kazeel snapped back.

“What happened? I heard this terrific noise and—”

“Relax, brother,” Kazeel told him, disentangling himself from Bahzi. “Nothing happened. Unexploded ordnance going off. Something like that. I am still alive and my men have scattered anyone who might have been lurking about. I've been through worse.”

Bahzi shrugged, a little nervously. “Perhaps you've become too famous, my brother,” he told Kazeel, eyeing the magazines. He'd placed them there as a way of needling the Al Qaeda operative, but Kazeel wasn't biting. He put the magazines together, stacking them in a neat pile, then pushed them aside. He indicated to Bahzi that they should sit and talk business. It took Bahzi several long seconds to squeeze back into his seat.

“You have your launchers I hear?” he asked Kazeel, once he was settled. He took out a notebook full of information on weapons systems and their price quotes.

“I do,” Kazeel replied. He displayed a few digital photos stored in his photofone for Bahzi. They were images of the muddy launchers still in their protective suitcases. Bahzi's eyes lit up when he saw them. For an arms dealer, seeing so many Stinger launchers was like seeing a gold mine. He immediately coveted them.

“Brother, this is a very formidable cache,” Bahzi sighed. “Now I see why you need some missiles.”

“Which is why we are here,” Kazeel replied, impatiently.

Bahzi shifted in his seat. Kazeel didn't like his body language all of a sudden. “How many do you want?” the Iraqi asked.

“I have thirty-six launchers,” was Kazeel's reply. He continued showing Bahzi the 'fone photos of the stash of dented suitcases; he was like a mother showing off baby pictures.

“Thirty-six in all, you say?” Bahzi wheezed. “Why so many?”

Kazeel resisted the urge to reach across the table and slap Bahzi.
Why must I always explain this….
he thought.

“I need thirty-six missiles,” he said firmly. “Because I am going after thirty-six different targets.”

Bahzi's eyebrows shot up. This sounded interesting.

“Tell me, brother,” Bahzi said. “Tell me your plan.”

Kazeel laughed in his face. “You should know better than to ask that, my friend.”

Bahzi shrugged. He was so fat, his robes were ripping under his armpits. “Just from what little I know now, I could get twenty-five million dollars from the Americans for turning you in.”

“But why would you bother doing that, brother?” Kazeel volleyed back at him. “You wouldn't have a moment of peace to spend such a windfall.”

Bahzi laughed, a little testily. “But why not, my brother?
You
would be in America's hands. And I would enjoy their money to my heart's content. Only your ghost would haunt me.”

Kazeel looked Bahzi right in his blubbery eyes. “My men,” he said, indicating the Dragos. They'd taken up positions all around the room, including one who had moved directly behind Bahzi and, without the Iraqi knowing it, was taking pictures through a helmet cam of the pricing notebook Bahzi had on the table before him. “My men would hunt you down and feed you to the dogs, while you were still alive.”

The two Dragos nearest Bahzi took one step forward. Suddenly they were towering over him.

Bahzi laughed nervously. The time for jokes had clearly passed.

“I'd prefer to die of old age,” he said. He reached into his bulky
mufti
and came out with his own photofone. It was slightly bigger than Kazeel's. He began displaying images of Stinger missiles. They were in a warehouse somewhere; that's all Kazeel had to know about them now. Each one of Bahzi's photos, which showed stacks of missiles in long metal tubes, also showed one of his men holding up a recent newspaper front page, proof that they were in possession of these missiles as late as yesterday.

“Half are leftovers from our victory against the Russians,” Bahzi said, as if he himself had been in the mountains of Kabul fighting off Soviet Hinds—and nothing could have been further from the truth. “Half are new.”

“A motherlode,” Kazeel said, with some surprise. “But how do I know they work?”

“Why wouldn't they?” Bahzi replied, looking authentically offended. “If I sold you bad merchandise then your men would have another reason to come and get me, and their dogs would get their dinner yet.”

“You've tested some from this batch?”

“Some were tested in Kenya.” Bahzi began ticking off his fingers. “At Basra. Above Baghdad. They were battle-tested because we live in a world of conflict, my friend. Those that remain have been recalibrated, recharged. Ready to go.”

Kazeel sighed heavily. He could smell Bahzi from across the table. “Then just give me your price.”

Bahzi wrote down a figure in his notebook, tore the page out, and pushed it in Kazeel's direction. Kazeel picked it up, read it, then neatly tore the page in half and passed both back pieces to Bahzi. Bahzi smiled, picked up both halves, and halved one again and pushed both back to Kazeel.

Kazeel picked up the smallest piece and removed just a corner of it. Then he looked back at Bahzi. “Deal?”

“Deal…” Bahzi replied.

Kazeel wrote a bank account number on another piece of paper, along with the time and place he wanted the missiles delivered. He passed the page to Bahzi. Once Kazeel was sure the missiles had arrived at that location, he would contact his bank in Switzerland and have them release the funds being held in the box Bahzi now had the account number for. On that day, $17 million American, all of it provided by Kazeel's
judus,
would go into Bahzi's pockets. Uni would stay with Bahzi until he saw the missiles and then follow them to where they were being shipped. Thus the deal was concluded.

No cash. No computers. Not even a calculator.

This was how business was done in the Middle East.

 

The ride back to the Pushi started out well enough.

They left the small village ahead of Bahzi's men. One of the Dragos' Range Rovers stayed behind to cover the other two. If Bahzi was known to kill his business partners shortly after striking a deal, then the Dragos were taking no chances. Only when the first two Range Rovers were out of range of anything fired from the village, did they consider themselves safe. The third vehicle immediately joined the first two. Turning north, all three began the ascent into the mountains.