The Fourth War (11 page)

Camp Cowboy
CIA Paramilitary Base Camp/Operations
Northern Afghanistan

Peter Zembeic rode his horse into camp two hours before the sun would rise over the hump on the ridge. It was cold and the moisture in his breath had matted his beard. In the west, clouds were moving. It was soon going to rain. His hands were cold and his knees ached from holding himself in the saddle, but his body was warm and sweat damped his back under his loose-fitting clothes. Behind him his partners, a Tajik and a Kurd, followed on their horses, riding low on their saddles, good riders, but not as expert as he. It had been a seven-hour ride from the chopper LZ, a meandering journey through the high mountains designed to make it more difficult for observers to locate their base camp.

Entering camp, Peter dismounted and patted his horse. Isabel snorted softly and lifted her ears. She was a very good mount, sturdy, yet skittish with any other man on her back. He rubbed the sweat from her shoulders and patted her flanks. She snorted and leaned toward him, looking for him to take off the bridle so she could roll in the dirt. He loosed the horse, then walked into the command post where a young army Ranger was waiting, a blond man with a butch haircut and muscles so tight he could rip the sleeves on his shirt. The Ranger looked up and smiled, a relieved look on his face. “Welcome back, Peter. Good to see you,” he said.

Peter glanced around at the too familiar surroundings. His three week R and R and debrief in Israel had lasted just a couple days. Still, it was good to be back, at least in some ways, here among his comrades and subordinates, his friends. He walked to an old ice chest, a plastic cooler one of the men had commandeered from a BX in Karachi, and reached in and pulled out a lukewarm beer.

“Didn't think we'd see you so soon,” the Ranger continued as Peter wiped the water from the side of the can.

He popped the top and sucked on the beer. It was warm and fuzzy, but he didn't care. “Just love you guys too much to stay away,” he replied.

The Ranger grunted. Word of the catastrophe in Pakistan had already spread through the camp. He eyed the CIA agent. “Hear it's turning ugly over there.”

Peter swallowed and nodded.

“All of them?” the soldier pressed.

“Every single one,” Peter answered.

“Twenty-four?”

“Yep.”

The Ranger stared at the floor, swore silently, then glanced up. “I'm sorry, Peter,” he said, his face softened with emotion. “All of us are. I know you were hoping to get back to D.C. But man, I have to tell you I'm happy to have you back here. It just isn't the same. I know that makes me selfish, but I'm still glad you're here.”

Peter glanced at the Ranger. “Thanks, Bart—I think.” He took a long drink to finish the beer.

“How was the ride?” the Ranger asked. Peter only grunted and the Ranger nodded to the predawn darkness outside. “I love riding under the moon,” he said.

“Yeah, I like it too. You can sleep in the saddle, and it's peaceful and quiet, except at those times when someone is shooting at you. Gives one time to think. I like a night ride.”

“I spent all night with Abu,” the Ranger said as he turned to his propane-powered griddle where he was making pancakes.

“How is the old general?”

“Same as yesterday. Same as last year. The old man's like the mountains, he doesn't change much.”

The Ranger began to recount his evening with a local warlord, one of many who had helped the United States fight the insurgent Iranians and regenerating Taliban. He talked as he mixed, making up pancake batter, describing a meeting in which twenty-minutes-worth of business was crammed into almost six hours of smoking, talking, and staring into the fire, of complementing each other and cursing their enemies, of listening to sheep bells and watching for falling stars—an omen of the spirits being with them that night. After declining once again the invitation to spend the night with one of his wives, the Ranger had left the tribal leader with a firm embrace, many kisses, and two hundred thousand dollars in cash. That would keep the general and his small army happy for the next six months or so.

The Ranger debriefed Peter over pancakes. He ate them one by one as they slid off the miniature grill. The men talked for an hour, then Peter headed for his tent for a few hours sleep.

“What's going to happen in Pakistan?” the captain asked as Peter pulled his parka on.

Peter thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It's scary,” he answered.

“We've seen scary things before.”

“We haven't seen this.”

The Ranger nodded anxiously, then poured another pancake onto the hot grill.

Shin Bet Headquarters Compound
Tel Aviv, Israel

General Petate was eating a late lunch—fried cheese balls, steak, and red beans (he had serious doubts about living long enough to develop heart disease)—when he was interrupted by one of his staff. Petate glanced to his wife and shrugged. It was the first time in two weeks they had sat down together to eat and they had enjoyed twenty minutes alone before being interrupted, almost a record since he had taken this job.

Petate shot a look to the major who stood at their apartment door. “Excuse me, dear,” he muttered softly as he pushed himself up.

“You want me to fix you a plate to take with you?” she asked.

Petate shook his head and shoved another cheese ball into his mouth. “Delicious,” he told her as he turned for the door. “Save me some for tonight.”

“I might see you later, then?” she asked him.

“Hope so,” he said.

 

The major and a driver were ready to take the Shin Bet director to the command center on the other side of the compound. The command center had been constructed under a long, low brick building that looked like a warehouse, and it only took three minutes to get there. The vehicle passed through multiple cement barricades and security gates, then dropped down a steeply sloped drive that led under the building. Another aid was waiting, and he opened the door for Petate when his SUV came to a stop.

The three men walked immediately into the command center and down a long hallway with steel doors on each side, their boots clicking on the highly polished tile floor as they walked. Dropping down three more flights of stairs, Petate moved into his office and sat on the corner of his desk. His deputy was waiting, a smug smile on his face.

“Okay, what you got?” Petate asked him, though he already knew it was good. It took a groundbreaking moment to get his deputy to crack a grin, and he was smiling like a seventh-grader who had just kissed his first girl.

The deputy waited.

“Come on!” Petate demanded, though he was smiling now too.

“We've been watching the American,” the deputy began.

“You're talking Peter Zembeic, Washington's man?”

The deputy nodded. “He's back at Camp Cowboy. But while surveying the area, one of our guys identified someone else.”

“Who?”

The deputy dropped an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photograph on the desk. It was grainy and dark and showed a man walking through the crowded slums of Peshawar. Petate picked up the picture. “Who is it?” he asked.

“His name is Ali bin Estasharn Khanaqin. He's been hanging around the area for the past couple days.”

The director stared at the picture. “Never heard of him,” he said.

“Neither had we until a couple months ago. But we've done a little searching and we think we know who he is. More, we think we know who he works for.”

Petate waited and the deputy explained. By the time he was finished, Petate was smiling too. “I told you!” he said, a satisfied look on his face. “Now keep an eye on Zembeic! Never let him out of our sight.”

Camp Cowboy
Northern Afghanistan

Peter Zembeic walked through the camp to his tent, an eight-man NorthFace with double-ply walls and a small wood-burning stove. He took off his damp clothes and put on dry socks, then climbed into his sleeping bag atop his aluminum cot. By the time he slipped into his bag it was starting to drizzle; by the time he was warm it was pouring in sheets, a cold and bone-chilling rain, normal for this time of year. He listened to the rain running down the tent's over-fly, gathering into muddy streams on the ground that ran down the hill.

He started to drift. But in the quiet moment, somewhere between the reality of the world and the comfort of sleep, he thought again of his father, the last time he had seen him.

Peter stood for a moment at the heavy wood door, the hospital bustling around him, nurses and aides hustling up and down the halls. Patients, all old men, walked slowly in their immodest gowns, bare flesh and hairy legs embarrassingly obvious. Some moved with walkers; a few, the lucky ones, walked holding the arm of a family member or friend. He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, then pushed back the hospital door.

The four beds lined the room, two on the right and two on the left. The TV in the upper corner was on, but no one was watching and the sound was turned down. He glanced at the patients, four old dying men. Which was his father? How could he not tell? Could the cancer have changed his father's appearance so much? He studied the patients, then finally recognized his dad. His eyes, drooping hoods, were closed in deep sleep, his face taut and bony, with splotches of red.

Peter tightened his shoulders and moved toward his dad, brushing back the thin hair while leaning over the bed. He stood without moving for a very long time. The room was quiet and he gently stroked his father's forehead. The skin, warm and tender, was stretched over the bone.

His father, Norman Allen Zembeic, a South African immigrant who had immigrated to the States when he was only sixteen, had been sworn an American citizen and enlisted in the army on the same day. He served in the Vietnam War, then worked the rest of his life in the steel mills outside of Detroit. His wife, a good woman whom Peter could barely remember, had been killed in a car accident when Peter was just four years old. It had been the two of them ever since, always having each other, but both of them feeling alone, knowing they were missing a very special part of their lives. As a kid, Peter sometimes wondered who missed her most, he or his father. As the years passed he concluded it was harder on his dad.

Peter's father coughed and shook the bed, rocking it gently on its squeaking wheels. Peter pulled his hand back and his father opened his eyes, staring for a moment before he recognized his son. “Peter. What are you doing here?” he finally mumbled. His speech was slurred and weakened and he wet his dry lips.

“They brought me home, Dad.”

“I thought you were in…I don't know…over there.” His father waved toward the east with a trembling hand.

“I was. They let me come home.”

“Well, well, that's really nice.” The old man's voice trailed off and he struggled to swallow. Peter lifted a small glass of water off the bedside tray and positioned the straw to his father's lips. The old man drank, taking two tiny sips before relaxing back into the thin pillow. “Did you see Doctor, uh…what's his name?” his father asked.

“Doctor Mortenson.”

“Yeah. Dr. Mortenson. He's very nice.”

Peter nodded. “Did Doctor Mortenson tell you…did he, uh, tell you anything?” he asked.

“He told me I was going to die.”

Peter paused. “We're all going to die.”

“I'm going to die soon.”

Peter looked away, then answered, “I know you are, Dad.”

The old man coughed again, then stared at the window. “It's okay, Peter. I'm not afraid any more. But you know, this cancer, it hurts. It really hurts sometimes. If you have an option, I'd recommend something else. Get run over by a semi, jump off a cliff. Do something quick. That's my recommendation to you.”

“I'm sorry, Dad,” Peter whispered.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry it hurts. Sorry for everything.”

“That's okay, Son. I understand. What have I got, a couple months, a couple weeks? I'm sure you've talked to the doctors, you probably know more than I do.” The old man brought a shaking hand to his lips, wiping feebly.

“Dad,” Peter answered softly, “I'm in the middle of something. I don't have much time. It's kind of hard to explain. But I can't stay very long.”

“What you are doing is important. You do what you have to do.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“How about a cigarette.”

“You haven't smoked in forty years, Dad.”

“And a beer.”

“I'm not so sure that's a great idea.”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll slurp on some Jell-O instead.”

Peter pulled back and straightened up, placing his hands on the chrome rail that ran down the side of the bed. The old man wiped his chin again. “When will you come back?” he asked.

“I don't know, Dad. A couple weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe shorter. It's really hard for me to know.”