Shock Wave, page 3
What the hell does that mean? Where’s the “We need you back in here” line? And hooah, the army word for everything gung ho? In this case meaning . . . what? “You go, girl,” maybe. She didn’t remember Hadley patronizing her before.
Bridget opened a secure chat and pinged her deputy, Liz Michaels.
“Hi! Great to hear from you,” Liz responded. “ How are you?”
“I’m fine. How’s it going?”
“Wait, you’re supposed to be in flight now.”
“I am.”
“Cool.”
“So, how’s it going?”
“We’re good.” Not exactly the level of detail Bridget wanted.
“How was the White House meeting?”
“Not fun.”
Bridget snorted. She’d had her own tense moments there. “Anything new on Assali?”
“No, nada.”
“You think I could get something more than two-word answers?”
“I guess.”
Then Liz added, “That was a joke.”
“So, tell me what the F is going on.”
“Hadley said not to bother you with stuff. ”
It took Bridget a few seconds to decide how to respond. “On a Pentagon line, I cannot type what I want to type right now about a three-star general.”
“LOL. Don’t be too hard on him. He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“That’s sweet . . . I guess. But not necessary. TELL ME ABOUT ASSALI.”
“We don’t have much new on him. We had a few bursts of chatter that were maybe about him or maybe about an attack or maybe about nothing. Now, it’s gone quiet.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Then she added, “Sorry for the two-word answer. Haha.”
Without phone call intercepts, the intelligence community had no way of even guessing what Assali and his remaining cohort were up to. Bridget was pretty sure he’d be up to something. She had to get back into the building, see the data for herself, push the staff in the right directions.
“Hadley says you’re out two months, maybe three,” Liz wrote.
“Screw that. It’s what the docs say, but I’ll be in the office by the end of the week if I have to shoot my way out of the hospital.”
“That would be good news for me, but don’t overdo it. You need to rest.”
“Everybody’s a doctor, now. I’ll see you Friday, if not before.”
“All right. Good luck. Don’t shoot anyone.”
As Bridget closed her laptop, the nurse appeared with her pain meds. “You should get some rest, ma’am.”
Bridget glared at her. “The next person who tells me to get some rest is gonna get thrown off this airplane.”
The nurse folded her arms across her chest.
“Okay, sorry,” Bridget said. She took the meds.
“Listen, ma’am, you’re under a lot of stress, coming off being shot, hospital time, now back to your regular job stress, whatever that is. You can snap at me. It’s okay. But recognize it for what it is.”
“You saying I have PTSD?”
“No, ma’am, not Disorder. That would be above my pay grade, anyway. But every patient on this plane has Post-Traumatic Stress to handle, medical staff and aircrew, too. We all get through it in our own way at our own pace, with help if needed. But half the battle is recognizing it.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Bridget touched the nurse’s arm. “I actually am tired.”
The nurse fluffed Bridget’s pillow. “We have about six hours to go. I’ll give you a heads-up when we’re getting close.”
Bridget nodded and slid along the gurney to lie down on her wound-free left side. The vibration of the plane soothed her, like one of those quarter-eating massage beds at motels in the mountains. That made her think about her boyfriend, Will, left behind in Baghdad, riding his desk job at forward Special Ops HQ. They’d had a helluva day—gone off-book, shot some jihadis, nearly gotten her killed. They’d also maybe repaired their relationship, just in time for yet another separation.
She stared at the exposed metal ceiling. Bridget knew from her army days that that’s the way these things go. She knew it would be true when she decided, against all experience, to date a Navy SEAL. At least they were in a good place for their next holding pattern. She should have chatted with him when she was online. Well, who even knew what the hell time it was in Baghdad? She’d send him an email when she got to DC.
Bridget shifted to a less painful position. The next thing she knew, the nurse was waking her for landing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Assali looked particularly small in the super-king-sized bed in one of the prince’s many guest rooms. The morning sun snuck through at the edges of the blackout curtains, delivering soft light to wake him.
He felt much more like himself than he had at any time in the past week, since he’d left that lovely blonde in the hotel room in Amman, minutes ahead of the Jordanian security forces and, no doubt, their American masters. Damn them for interrupting. He’d had more plans for her.
Since then, he had lived in a series of dingy safe houses and desert tents, and then the shit-soaked village and that awful boat. Last night, after a silent ride with the prince’s security men, he’d taken his first shower and eaten his first decent meal in all that time. He regretted only that the prince served neither whiskey nor whores, but his regret was short-lived. He’d fallen asleep the minute his head hit the silk pillowcase.
Lying on his back, he admired the gold leaf geometric pattern on the twenty-foot ceiling. It was incongruous for a desert palace, but the walls were covered with dark green velvet and hung with fine wool carpets in flora and fauna designs.
Next to the large window to his right, twelve framed tiles depicted one of the most popular scenes in Middle Eastern folklore—three gazelles and a lion under a large tree, lush with leaves in shades of green and yellow. It was called the Tree of Life, and it originated as a mosaic on the floor of the bath in Hisham’s Palace, built by a wealthy caliph in the eighth century near Jericho.
Tree of Life, indeed. One of the gazelles was being attacked by the lion and blood ran down its side. Assali had seen sanitized versions in the region’s tourist bazaars, with the gazelles and the lion grazing side by side. This one, true to the original, carried the message that life is for the strong—appropriate for a caliph, he reasoned, and for the prince he would meet this morning.
Assali swung his legs over the side and dropped down to the terra-cotta floor, a full meter below the top of the mattress. He put on the plush slippers that had been provided and padded to the bathroom to prepare.
* * *
Back in his room, Assali found a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, fresh-baked flatbread and rich, dark Turkish coffee. His clothes had been cleaned and laid out for him. The attendant had found him a red and white kufiyah, as requested. Assali knew that was the prince’s preference.
As he finished adjusting it on his head and draping the corners over his shoulders, the attendant appeared and led him to an anteroom lined with twenty identical oversized leather chairs, separated by small tables sporting woven white doilies, bottles of water and small blue vases with one fresh rose in each. The prince was flaunting his ability not only to have roses in the desert, but to waste them. Assali sat in the chair closest to the office door. His throat went dry. He opened the nearest bottle and took a sip.
Assali had been in the prince’s palace before, always with some trepidation but never with the fear that gripped him now. The marble pillars, Koranic-verse tapestries and wall-sized mother-of-pearl reliefs were more intimidating than usual.
He went over the pitch he would make.
The infidel Americans had destroyed much of his capability and frozen the bank accounts he had built through years of hard work. He would have to convince the prince that his old-school, back-to-basics plan was worthy of support. It was the sole pathway to Assali’s twin goals—cause maximum pain to America and its Israeli lackeys and provide himself with enough money to buy an island somewhere and live out his days in luxury. The prince shared the first goal and had indulged the second. Until now, at least.
Assali wished he’d made the move to the island before this disaster. He’d had more money than most men dream of. But neither the money nor the revenge was ever enough. Now, the Americans had made him a refugee again, and a beggar, too.
If the prince found his plan lacking, he’d be chucked out with nothing, at best, shot in a desert ditch, at worst. Or was it the other way around?
* * *
Assali expected to be kept waiting, the requisite show of power, but as his wait passed ninety minutes, his worry grew. This was humiliation. If he was lucky, it would be the worst punishment the prince would give him.
Finally, an aide appeared and without apology ushered him into the office. It was bigger than the waiting room, with the same ornate decorations. There were sofas all around, a conference table and another for meals, and four chairs in front of the desk for visitors.
In a tall-backed, green leather chair, behind the large, ornate wooden desk, flanked by free-standing poles—one with the national flag and the other with the royal standard—sat Ghassan Mohammed al-Tayyib, the prince’s secretary and enforcer.
Assali exhaled, his shoulders sagged. But he righted himself—he hoped before al-Tayyib noticed. The secretary was writing something, or pretending to. He made Assali stand by the door in case there was any doubt about who had the power in this meeting.
Assali had met al-Tayyib several times. The prince’s favorite henchman was short, like Assali, but maybe half his weight. Today, he looked even thinner than Assali remembered. His qamis was fine cotton, pristine white and, Assali knew, reached his ankles. Though it was surely tailored, it seemed to hang off of him. Al-Tayyib’s sunken olive-tone cheeks gave way to a beard that would not behave as a good Saudi beard should. Behind reading glasses, his dark eyes, as always, revealed nothing. Assali had never seen the man smile.
Al-Tayyib glanced at Assali, as if noticing him for the first time, and made a gesture toward a chair in front of the desk. He did not get up. No hug, no kisses on both cheeks, no words of welcome. Not even a handshake. Al-Tayyib went back to his document, signed it, summoned an aide and handed it off.
“Tea, sayyid?” the aide asked.
The enforcer gave a half nod and the aide scurried away. Al-Tayyib folded his hands in front of him, took off his glasses and finally looked at Assali. He stared for several seconds, seeming to disapprove of what he was seeing. Assali sat up straight in his chair and waited for his host to speak first.
“The prince is disappointed in you,” al-Tayyib said.
“It was a setback. We were betrayed, but—”
Al-Tayyib raised a hand to silence him.
“It was a defeat. You should not blame others.”
“Yes. No, of course not. Please convey my deepest apologies—”
Al-Tayyib made a sound like “Pfffft,” which, roughly translated, meant “Screw you and screw your apology.”
“If not for your past record of service . . .” Al-Tayyib waved his hand beside his head, as if releasing a puff of smoke.
Assali got the message.
The aide reappeared with a shiny tray holding a tall silver pot and two glasses in silver holders. Each glass was on a saucer with sugar cubes and a small cookie. He put the tray on the desk and retreated. Al-Tayyib made no move to serve. That was unacceptably rude—another slight Assali had to take.
“Sayyid,” Assali tried for a subservient yet confident tone, “I have a plan. We will yet achieve his highness’s goals. If I could speak to him—”
“Speak to me,” al-Tayyib said. He leaned back to listen and almost disappeared into the oversized chair. He folded his hands under his chin. His index fingertips reached up to touch his lips.
Assali cleared his throat. “Last night—Eilat and Aqaba—it was a small gift to the prince.”
“Small, yes.”
Assali ignored the insult. “It was also a demonstration of what I can accomplish in spite of the recent difficulty, what I want to accomplish for our cause. Confronting the Americans directly in Syria was high-risk. Now, we return to a more . . . how shall I say . . . insulated approach.
“We use my old network. We kill Zionists and their collaborators. We force the Americans to help their child Israel, to stretch their resources and damage their immoral efforts throughout the region. We make the criminal Martelli look weak for the coming election.
“In a short time, when the network is fully reconstituted, we make our decisive blow—one they will never forget. And we create a situation where his highness, should he want to, could be the peacemaker—burnishing his relations with the Americans and with our brothers in the region. Or, if he prefers, he could increase the pressure, inflicting maximum pain on the Americans and taking credit with our friends in Moscow and Beijing.”
“And how will you accomplish all these great things?”
“As I have for decades, sayyid, by making use of my brother Palestinians. They will do what we ask for their own reasons, and for little money. And we shall push them to new heights.”
“And for you?”
“For me? For me, only his highness’s affection and perhaps some restoration of my reputation. Of course, my commission will be reduced in light of the recent troubles.”
Al-Tayyib grunted. “Yes. And no doubt you will need money up front.”
“Sadly, yes. My accounts are frozen. It will cost money to set the wheels in motion, and more later for the critical battle.”
“Which will be . . .”
“I have some ideas. I will be able to provide you full details when I see how the effort plays out.”
Al-Tayyib looked toward a far corner of the room and stroked his beard.
Assali let the man think for several seconds. “Sayyid, many of my people are in hiding. It is a difficult time. But Eilat and Aqaba prove all is not lost.”
“I will take your proposal to the prince. It is not much, but you are right about one thing. This is a challenging period for the jihad. We need new avenues. You will have your answer tomorrow.”
The prince’s gatekeeper put his glasses back on and turned to the next paper on his desk.
“Thank you, sayyid,” Assali said. He stood, gave a half bow, and left the room, walking backward, as if al-Tayyib were the prince himself.
* * *
The next evening, Assali was in a luxury hotel room in Riyadh. Still no whiskey or women, but he had an initial payment in a new Swiss bank account and half a dozen satellite phones in his suitcase.
He opened a bag of Belgian chocolates from the minibar and dialed a number he had memorized years ago.
“Aloo.”
The voice brought back memories of the old days—difficult times whitewashed with nostalgia. He smiled. “I know your voice, my old friend. Do you know mine?”
“Sayyid A—” The man stopped himself.
“Well done, my brother. No names, please.”
“Yes, sayyid. I am surprised to hear from you again so soon. And pleased, of course. Very pleased.”
“You and your men did well.”
“It was our honor to again serve the jihad. And we thank you for the opportunity.”
“Now, you shall have another opportunity.”
“Allah hu akbar.”
“Yes, yes.” Assali laid out his plan—a small-scale but bold strike that would achieve two goals. It would keep up the pressure on the Zionists and Martelli. And with luck, it would provide him with the men he needed for what was to come next.
“We can do it,” the man on the phone said.
“Good. I thought perhaps you were ready to retire, as an old man should.”
The man laughed. “I am not as old as you, sayyid.”
Assali snorted. “I will send you some funds. You must move as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, of course, sayyid. And sayyid, I am glad we are back. When I read the news last week, I was afraid . . . You know.”
“Do not fear, my friend. I am like a cat, although by now, maybe only four or five lives remaining.”
“Alf sanna, sayyid.” May you live a thousand years.
“Wa inta.” And you.
CHAPTER SIX
Bridget didn’t make it to the office by the end of the week, but it was only a few days past her self-imposed deadline that she managed to get out of the hospital without having to shoot anyone.
Most people would have gone straight home. Not Bridget. She told the taxi driver to take her to the Pentagon and ordered Liz to find a wheelchair and meet her at the entrance. Then, at the DIA doors, she stashed the wheelchair behind the policemen’s desk so she could walk into the office—slowly, leaning heavily on a cane—to a polite round of applause from her staff.
Bridget smiled to hide the wince from the pain that shot from the wound on her side down to the tips of her toes, then raised her left hand to stop them. “All right. All right. Thanks. We’ll talk later. Now, back to work.”
A few approached to shake her hand or offer a gentle hug. It was awkward to be the target of their affection or pity or whatever it was, and to be at work in the oversized army logo sweatshirt and sweatpants that she’d asked a nurse to buy for her in the hospital shop.
This was about as far from her usual look as Bridget could imagine. She had a touch of makeup borrowed from the nurse, and her hair was, well, brushed, anyway. It’s not that she was vain, but she had an image to project—powerful, beautiful, in charge. She felt none of that. But at least she was there.
Bridget walked the few steps to her small office and eased herself into the desk chair. She raised the sweatshirt to check the bandage. No blood. Good. Still, she was a little dizzy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
Liz appeared holding a classified file and a newspaper. “So, Superwoman, all good?”
“Definitely not ‘all good.’ But it will have to do.” She tilted her head toward Liz’s file. “What do I need to know?”
