The Fourth War (10 page)

Washington positioned himself even more on the edge of his seat, crushing the edge of the cushion with his enormous weight. “Mr. President, we do have some ideas who he might be,” he answered. “But he is very elusive, as good as any agent I know. Donner is a professional, he knows what he's doing, and until he wants us to know more about him we're not going to find out.”

The president considered this while he stared at his coffee. It was cool enough in the Oval Office that a fine wisp of steam could be seen drifting up from his cup. A roll of thunder groaned, vibrating the bulletproof windows against their ancient wood sills, and the rain could be heard pelting the windows and roof. He thought a long moment. The mental machinery churned. He turned to the colonel. “Alright, Colonel Bradley, how did you get involved?” he asked, shooting a quick glance to Washington, then bringing his eyes back to the man. “Why are you working with Donner? Why not one of Dr. Washington's agency men?”

Washington shifted, moving forward so far he barely sat on the edge of the couch, seeming to suspend his weight on his thick legs and knees. Always inanimate, his body language now screamed, anxious as he was to jump in. The president shot him a glance, warning him off, then focused on Bradley. He wanted to hear it from him.

“When Donner first made contact with us, he asked for a military liaison,” the colonel explained.

“A military liaison?”

“Yes, sir. He wanted to work through an intermediary. A military man.”

The president nodded slowly. “Okay. But why you? You were flying jets at the time. You were the commander of a bomber squadron, as I recall.” Bradley looked up, surprised. Clearly, the president had been asking some questions. “So how in the world did you get involved with this?” the president pressed.

“Reluctantly, sir,” Bradley answered.

The president huffed, understanding. “Okay. But reluctant or not, here you are. And I don't understand why.”

“Donner asked for me, sir. It was one of the contingencies of him working with us.”

The president cocked his head in surprise. “He asked for you?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir, he did. He demanded to work through only me.”

“He asked for you specifically. Not an air force officer? Not a military pilot? You were a by-name request?”

“Yes, Mr. President, that is correct. The man we now refer to as Donner said he would only pass us information if he could work it through me.”

The president shot another look toward his director, and hunched his shoulders in doubt. “You've got former military officers in your agency?” he questioned the CIA boss. “You've got officers from every service embedded within? Why Colonel Bradley? I don't understand.”

“If I could, Mr. President?” Colonel Bradley said. The president shifted his eyes back to him and the colonel went on. “After graduating from the Air Force Academy, before I entered pilot training, I volunteered for special assignment to the United Nations peacekeeping forces in Gaza and along the West Bank. I spent more than three years working with the UN, Israel, and the Palestinians there. During that time I made a number of contacts, I wouldn't say friends, but associations—in some cases close associations—with various men. We think, although we really don't know, but we suspect that Donner might be connected in some way to the time that I spent working with the UN. He was someone I worked with then, or more likely someone associated with someone I worked with back then. We have been through my notes and the dossiers of suspects a dozen times or more, trying to match Donner with the men that I knew, but we haven't come up with a match, though we have a suspect or two. Still, at the end of the day, the truth is we simply don't know who he is.”

POTUS sat back and swirled his coffee. The CIA director followed suit, eying the president carefully over the brim of his cup. Bradley didn't move as the president thought. Washington moved his hands to his knees, ready to push himself up.

“And that's all we know?” POTUS concluded.

Bradley shook his head. “That's about it.”

“He warned us of DARKHORSE?”

“Yes sir, he did. But the rendezvous in the mountains took too much time.” Bradley's mind flashed with a sudden image of the young girl's face, the only person in the world who could link them to Donner. “It took almost a week to make contact with his runner,” he continued. “Donner selected such a remote location, it took us several days to get our agent there. By the time our man made the contact and brought the warning out, the coup in Pakistan was already underway.”

“Okay. Fine. But now we've got a big problem. I got an NSA brief this morning, and from what I am hearing, my staff will come in shooting blanks. We don't have any more information on the warheads than we had yesterday. Is there any way Donner will help us find them?”

Washington took a breath, drawing the president's eyes toward him. “I doubt we'll get any assistance from Donner,” he said solemnly. “If he follows his pattern, and we believe that he will, once he has exposed himself, he will quickly disappear. If there's one thing we've learned, self-preservation is his primary goal. He will help when he can, but only he chooses when, and if there is any hint, any indication he would be compromised, he always drops out of sight. So I suspect, Mr. President, our dealings with Donner may have come to an end, perhaps for a very long time, possibly forever. Once he sees that you are preparing to take action in Pakistan, he will lay very low.”

POTUS ground his back teeth together, then glanced at his watch. “Alright then,” he said, speaking more to himself than anyone in the room. “All right,” he repeated, accepting the disappointment and mentally moving on. So Donner was out. They would find other ways. He shook his head then turned to the colonel. “If you don't expect to hear from Donner, what are you going to do now?” he asked.

Colonel Bradley hesitated, then glanced at Washington. “I hope to go back to my command,” he replied.

“The B-2 wing in Missouri?”

Again, Bradley was surprised. The president knew more about him than he would have guessed. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “I've been away from my wing while I've been acting as liaison with Donner, and I'm anxious to get back.”

The president nodded, then leaned toward him, his voice now low and intent. “The B-2s are part of Group 21, aren't they?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. We train regularly for Group 21 missions. We are ready to respond.”

“Good, that's exactly what I need to hear. So be prepared, Colonel Bradley, for I may be calling on you.”

The colonel nodded eagerly. “We'll be ready, sir.”

 

The colonel and Washington were escorted out of the Oval Office by the president's chief of staff. They made their way through security, then paused under the veranda on the east lawn.

“When are you leaving?” Washington asked as he turned to Bradley.

Bradley paused as he moved his eyes to the sky. The rain had let up, the storm clouds having moved east, but there was still a fine drizzle and he shivered from the cold. “I have a few things to do here,” he answered. “I've got to turn in my security badges and have my final debrief with your staff. Then I want to stop and see someone.” He quickly thought of Peter's father.

Washington switched subjects, getting back to the comfort of work. “You know that Peter was on the DARKHORSE intercept operation,” he said. “He went down into the bunker himself. In fact, he was the one who realized the bunker door had not been breached by force, but opened through the use of the security code. I'm glad he was there. I just feel better when he's involved.”

“We are lucky to have him.”

Washington nodded his head.

“Where's he going now?” Bradley asked.

“I'm sending him back to Pakistan. Back to the mountains. We'll need him there.”

Bradley nodded slowly. No way Peter was going to get back to the States in time to see his old man. Not now. Not for months. There was too much going on. His heart turned suddenly heavy. It was a high price to pay. And few people would know, and fewer still care. It was the way of a soldier. Part of their sacrifice.

Washington turned and started walking toward the waiting SUV. “You know,” he said. “Shin Bet is holding a couple people for us.”

Bradley turned quickly and lifted an eyebrow. “Are they holding al Qaeda?”

Washington grunted, as if it shouldn't be a surprise. “Yeah,” he answered. “People we obviously couldn't bring back to the States, nor send down to mingle with the prisoners at Gitmo. There are a few prisoners we would prefer not to acknowledge we have, and the only way we can do that is to not take possession of them. So we have an agreement with Shin Bet that they will take care of these special cases for us. It works pretty well. We both get what we want.” Washington paused fifteen feet from the black SUV and the driver got out and opened the rear door for them. He turned to face Bradley and lowered his voice. “I want to show pictures of the girl Peter met in the mountains to a man named Nashiri,” he said.

Bradley stopped beside him. “I don't know what good that will do.”

“Nashiri is the highest ranking member of al Qaeda that we have in captivity. If he recognizes the girl, that information could lead us to Donner. If Donner is inside his operation, then Nashiri will know.”

“If he knows, he won't tell you.”

“Oh, I think he will.”

Bradley hunched his shoulders, than placed his hand on Washington's arm. “You do what you need to do,” he said in a low voice. “And I wish you luck. But I have to tell you, I am so glad to be getting out of this work. It smells bad. It hurts. I'm not cut out for this. Get me back to my jets.”

Washington grunted, then turned and walked for the car. Bradley followed and the two men climbed in silently.

Shin Bet Headquarters Compound
Tel Aviv, Israel

Everyone was happy with the arrangement. The Americans didn't have to answer some very awkward questions from her people and it deflected criticism from some of the fence-sitting Arab nations as well. Moreover, the Israeli courts, after years of bombings and bloodshed, had already approved the “special measures” that permitted their intelligence organizations far more latitude in their interrogations than the U.S. courts or military tribunals would ever allow.

The agreement specifically stipulated that the United States and Shin Bet would share information. Sometimes this happened. Sometimes it did not. The reality was, there was often a gray line between the theory of an agreement and the real-world application in times of national stress. The Americans hid things. Shin Bet hid things as well. Some things were best kept secret, even from the most trusted friends.

As the Shin Bet leader stared at the paper that he held in his hand, he knew this was one of those times to keep a secret.

The three-star general who commanded Shin Bet stood in silence at his window, gazing out on the rising sun. A green pasture lay before him on the other side of the compound, and he watched a stallion and two mares graze the thick grass, wet and glistening with morning dew. Petate wished he was out there, as he did every morning, husbanding his horses, feeling his boots heavy as they soaked up the dew, bracing the cool bite of the early morning air. Tall and lanky, the general had a sharp edge to his features, and though he always spoke slowly, his mind was not a word, but a full page ahead of his mouth.

Petate took a deep breath and held it, then read the request once again. He studied the photographs that had been secure-faxed to him. Who was this girl? He had never seen her before. But still, something nagged him.

Dr. Washington wanted some answers.

So he would see what he could do. If Nashiri knew the girl, they would know soon.

But he had his suspicions as to what was going on. And if he was right, his nation had its own plan.

The Americans weren't the only ones who had considered the possibility that Pakistan might one day lose her nuclear arsenal. And if the situation had developed along the lines he suspected, then much of what he learned from Nashiri would not be passed to the United States.

 

Abd al-Rahim al Nashiri, a burly and sour-looking man in his midthirties, remained in his chair as the two interrogators entered the cell. A fine-haired captain approached the prisoner, and a slender civilian followed behind. As the men approached, Nashiri's eyes remained tight and sullen under a closely shaved scalp. He smelled of soap and harsh lye. The Israelis forced him to shower every day.

As the two men drew near him, Nashiri scowled belligerently. The thin-haired captain he had dealt with. But the other one, the tall one, he had not seen him before.

Nashiri studied the civilian in his dark jeans and loose shirt as he sat down, then looked away. Without introduction, the captain pulled an envelope from his briefcase and extracted five pictures, grainy and monochrome photographs showing various profiles of a young and beautiful girl. As he spread the photographs across the smooth table, the civilian kept his eyes focused on the prisoner.

Nashiri looked down, then took a sudden, shallow breath. His hands began to tremble and he hid them between his legs. He tried to force a blank face but it was already too late.

The captain leaned against the table. He had seen it too. The look on the prisoner's face. Nashiri knew the girl. He leaned into the prisoner. “Who is she!” he demanded in Arabic.

Nashiri cocked his head and remained silent.

The captain leaned closer and sneered, “You know her, Nashiri. Your eyes cannot lie.”

Nashiri turned away.

The civilian took a step forward, his face perfectly calm. “Work with us, Nashiri,” he said in a soft voice. “We feed you, care for you.” He nodded toward the interrogation door and forced a compassionate stare. “We keep the ugly ones off you. At least we have until now. But you've heard the stories, Nashiri, you know what some of them will do. You have heard stories about the animals they are. And it's true, Nashiri, everything—and worse. You will be buried in pig's blood when they are finished with you.

“Think about that, Nashiri. Consider your options. You can do this easy, or you can do it slow. You can do it comfortably, or through the most exquisite pain. You know her, Nashiri, your eyes have already betrayed you.”

The prisoner's shoulders slumped and he dropped his face to his palms. He wept like a child, gasping in uncontrollable sobs.

The two men looked at each other and frowned. It wasn't the way they would have chosen to do it, for, given time, they could have gotten the information without roughing him up.

But the Americans had insisted that time was of the essence. Absolutely critical. And if the Americans were worried, then they were worried too.

The two men dragged the prisoner back to his cell and left him alone. “Think about it, Nashiri,” they said through the steel door. “Think about it awhile, while we get the roughing crew.”

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Thomas Washington waited as long as he could stand it, then picked up the phone and patched a call through to his man in Tel Aviv. “What's going on with those guys in the basement?” he demanded to know.

His subordinate hesitated, wishing he had something to report. “Nothing yet, sir. Looks like it might take some time.”

“Time? Who's got time!? How much time will this take!?”

The young agent hesitated. “Sir,” he finally answered. “I really believe they're doing all that they can.”

“Tell them to do more.”

The young agent grew frustrated. What did the boss want them to do? “Sir, you've got to sit back and take a breath,” he said. “You can't expect miracles, at least not overnight. The Israelis are good, but they have rules too, and even with court-approved special measures it will take a few days, maybe longer, to get anything. You know how tough this can be, some of these guys never talk.”

“This guy had better,” Washington snapped, “or we all might be dead.”

Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv

Abd al-Rahim al Nashiri lay motionless on the top of his bed, a bare piece of metal positioned in the center of the cell. He closed his eyes and shifted his body, listening to the plastic mattress crinkling under his weight.

The picture of the girl flashed again and again in his mind. He knew who she was. He knew who she worked for. And that was the problem. He just knew too much.

He opened his eyes and studied his cell, which was brightly lit from the florescent light overhead. It was quiet and he guessed it to be early morning. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his pajama bottoms hung loosely around his thin waist. His cell was smooth with bare walls, a simple hole for a toilet, and no windows or bars. His one blanket, a small patch of cotton, had a wire stitched around the edges to keep him from tearing it in strips and creating a rope with which he could hang himself. The camera in the top corner of his cell kept a focused lens upon him. They watched him every second. He was never out of their sight. Which made his task much more difficult.

But he was prepared.

He had taught others to do it. He knew what to do. And like the other al Qaeda leaders, the necessary tool had been implanted in his ear, the agreed upon method of keeping their secrets safe.

But he would have to move quickly, before they could rush into the room.

Pushing himself to his knees, he crossed his legs on the bed, reached up and placed his little finger into his right ear. He could barely touch the tiny glass capsule, a custom-fit vial, about the size of a pencil eraser, that had been surgically implanted under the skin. It had a very sharp edge pointing into his ear. He positioned his finger squarely on the very tip of the glass, feeling it carefully through the thin skin, then took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, thought of his family, wondering for the last time where they were, said a prayer that committed himself to God, then braced himself for the pain. Satisfied, he shoved the glass vial inward as far as he could.

The pointed end of the vial cut into his inner ear, then shattered, releasing the cyanide concentrate. His neck snapped to the side and his eyes flung open, but he did not cry out. He bit his lower lip, almost cutting it through, then lowered his head onto his folded arms.

The burn began in his throat, but soon spread through his chest, an enormous fist squeezing the breath from his lungs. It tightened more fiercely and he exhaled warm breath. The burn spread to his groin and then down his legs and he kicked involuntarily, spreading his feet. His blood was on fire! It burned everywhere! His lungs punctured like balloons, incapable of taking in air. Then the fire raced up his back and into his skull. He snapped his neck back and finally cried out, then stared with blank eyes, looking into the camera that he could no longer see.

Seconds later, two panicked guards rushed into the bare room. But the cyanide had already swept through him and there was not a thing they could do.

 

Petate took the news of Nashiri's death with little emotion. He nodded at his assistant, huffed, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

It was just as well, he thought as the aide left the room. He had already guessed everything Nashiri might tell him, and this gave him an excuse for not having to tell the United States.

Qy-5 Underground Bunker
Al Ram, Extreme Northern Pakistan

As Nashiri slipped into sleep, sucking in his last breath, thirteen hundred miles to the east the senior council of the conspiracy met for the first time since the coup. They called themselves
Alsaque el Allah,
or the Sons of God, and they were the new leaders of al Qaeda, dedicated to destroying the United States. The Great One, the Anointed One, Direct Descendent of the Prophet, the Giver of Laws, sat at the head of a makeshift table deep in an underground compound the Soviets had excavated during the Afghanistan war, and glared at his men, taking short, angry breaths. “The war-heads are gone?” he demanded in an agonized tone.

The room was deadly silent. “Yes, my
Sayid,
” his chief lieutenant began to explain. “They were taken from the compound a few hours before we shot the president's aircraft down.”

The leader glared at his deputy with fatal, dull eyes. His hands began to tremble and his forehead creased. His anger was rising, like a sudden storm, and his men turned away, bracing for his rage.

The Great One was a violent and unpredictable man. Wealthy and pampered as a youth, he chose now to live in a tent. Unafraid of eating raw meat, he washed his hands constantly. They said he that he had several wives and many children, but he never spoke of them, and it had been several years since he had made any attempt to go home. His family, long abandoned, had eventually made its way to Lebanon. Gentle to animals and a student of the stars, the Great One spent many quiet nights alone, staring at the night sky, yet he had a violent temper and thought nothing of death; condemning men to die as easily as he ordered lunch, though he gave more thought to the menu than to their innocence. And there was no logic to his emotions, which often raged out of control, as if some secret switch turned off and on in his head.

Sitting around the table, his men held their breath, hoping the rising storm would not focus on them.

“The Americans stole the warheads!” the Great One screamed as he jabbed at the air.

“No, my
Sayid
—”

“Of course they did, fool! Do you think that I'm stupid!”

His chief lieutenant hesitated, avoiding his master's eyes. “
Sayid,
the Americans do not have the warheads,” he said.

“Of course they do, fool!! They beat us to Sukkur!”

“No, my
Sayid.
” The lieutenant respectfully bowed his head. “The United States didn't get the warheads. We know that is true, for we had a man watching, hidden in the hills above the compound. The warheads were taken long before the Americans got there.”

“Then where are they, Imad!” the Great Leader demanded, a salty bead of sweat running under his chin.

“Unknown soldiers slipped into Sukkur and took the war-heads a few hours before the coup,” the lieutenant explained. “Someone must have warned them. That is all that we know.”

The leader stood angrily, cursing the news. He stomped around the table, slamming his fist into his palm. “They were ours! They were the first Muslim bombs! Do you understand how effectively we could have extracted our revenge! Now, I want you to tell me how you let this great gift slip away!”

The leader stopped and grew sullen. His lieutenant didn't answer. The other men were silent. No one even dared move.

“Someone warned the Pakistanis,” the lieutenant repeated. “There was nothing more we could do.”

“Then there is a traitor among us,” the Great Leader hissed angrily. “But do not worry, my brothers, I
will
find who he is! I will tear out his guts and hold his heart in my palm. He will pay the price of betrayal, I promise you that.”

“Yes,
Sayid,
yes, if you were only to instruct us, we could go after him.”

“No! No time now! We have other issues we must deal with first. We
must
find the warheads before the Americans do!”