Rogues & Patriots, page 11
Mohammad shrugged, a gentle lifting of his shoulders. “We’ll get there, Mr. Crane. But I think I need to start from the beginning.” He began speaking and didn’t stop for quite a while. He explained he was a Ba’ath with good family connections, a distant relative of Saddam Hussein. His specialty had been the oil market. As a young man, even before Operation Desert Storm, he’d secretly dreamed of coming to America. Then the unthinkable happened. His wife Qamar was raped and murdered by a Shi’a servant named Daysam. The killer was arrested and hanged. Fair play, perhaps, but it led to bad blood between Mohammad and Daysam’s family. He and Adara, who was ten, went into hiding.
“After that, I didn’t care if I lived or died. All that mattered was bringing my daughter to safety. I put out careful feelers and was introduced to Thomas Quincey—the man you know as Miles Amsterdam. He was in his late thirties then, already a powerful man with powerful connections. He wore many hats—JAG, Marine Corps captain, and lobbyist with the State Department. He was on a first-name basis with his CIA friends, who, at that time, were covertly managing dirty tricks against Saddam’s government. Because I existed on the fringes of Saddam’s ruling clique, my defection would be considered a successful American intelligence coup.”
Mohammad explained that after they’d come to an agreement, he’d transferred most of his money into several secure American bank accounts controlled by Quincey and his people. With Mohammad as a signatory on each account. “Those were the terms of the deal. Because of the sanctions, it was impossible for me to transfer my money out of Iraq on my own. That’s why we couldn’t take the normal refugee route; Adara and I would have arrived here nearly penniless. And it would have taken far too long. So in order to expedite things, I agreed, in writing, to work as a permanent asset to the United States. You might say I’m contractually bound. It was the devil’s own bargain, but I felt it was the best choice, especially for my daughter. She had no future in Iraq.”
Once the deal was finalized, Mohammad and Adara, disguised as peasants, were driven west through Al-Anbar province in a covered pickup truck, then south into Saudi Arabia.
“We were wrapped in quilts and covered with straw. Adara was ten years old. Like many Ba’aths, we are not religious. But there, under the straw, I prayed to Allah and to the Christian God and to the God of Moses and to any other gods I could think of. Somehow, we got across the border into Saudi Arabia. I dared to hope we would truly be free.”
He paused and I felt a lacerating sympathy. Turned and surveyed the service road, east and west. No sign of his three minders.
“But then I imagine Quincey slowly tightened the screws in some kind of double-cross.”
Mohammad nodded. “Exactly, Mr. Crane. In stages. Or, as we say in the old country, whoever plays with a cat will find his claws.”
At first it was just intelligence. Mohammad provided information about the Ba’ath Party and their political structure in both Iraq and Syria, and whatever information he had about the Shi’a opposition. At first, he felt deep gratitude and considered Quincey a friend. But things were never quite right. Although they were allowed to live well, and Adara attended excellent private schools, Mohammad never regained complete control of his capital. Quincey discouraged him from investing his money as he saw fit. As early as 2000, he realized funds were being siphoned out of his accounts. After 9-11, the bleeding got worse.
Mohammad shook his head ruefully. “In the Middle East, we have another saying. A chameleon does not leave one tree until he is sure of another. In my desperation, I didn’t follow that advice. I had never been sure about Quincey. You can’t be absolutely sure about anyone in the intelligence game.” Although his voice was steady, Mohammad was trembling from the cold, the black hair on his arms distinct against his skin.
“I’ve only met Mr. Quincey once. My experience was not a positive one. But listen, sir, we have to hurry.” I looked around. Still no sign of the minders.
He nodded but continued to speak in the same deliberate fashion. “What are they going to do? Shoot me? Were it not for my daughter, I might not mind. But as long as I cooperate, or pretend to cooperate, I’m too valuable to execute…” He paused, shifted his gaze out over the river, but didn’t stop talking. “If we were expatriated back to Iraq, the current Ba’ath opposition would kill us for being traitors. We would be hanged or beheaded or they might turn us over to al-Nusra Front or ISIS. And if the Shi’a got their hands on us, the blood feud would start all over again. They would kill me for being a Ba’ath, and my daughter would be raped and murdered or else sold into slavery.”
A fleeting rage in his luminous brown eyes followed by unfathomable sadness. He paused and slowly rolled down his sleeves. Struggled with the buttons.
“So that’s why you couldn’t stop Quincey when he set his sights on your daughter.”
“It killed me, sir. Unfortunately, Adara was swept off her feet. She was young, a junior in college, and Thomas, like most fanatics, can be very persuasive. This happened in 2009, soon after Thomas returned from two tours of duty in Al-Anbar Province. Although marriage between an older man and a younger woman is common, practically de riguer in my native land, I was skeptical from the start. I did not think they were a good match. Thomas had always been rigid and controlling, while my daughter is very much a free spirit. Or at least she was a free spirit. Naturally, she wouldn’t listen to me. She was in love, and they were married while she was still a senior at Hawthorne College. It was the saddest day of my life other than the day my wife was murdered. Thomas insisted Adara change her name to Amina to disguise the fact he was marrying my daughter. He pulled strings and got her new paperwork. On her marriage license, her name is Amina Hosseini.”
Mohammad paused and rubbed his eyes. Looked past me. The river was almost calm now, and the sky to the north was an eerie brownish-orange. He fought to get control of himself. Rubbed his chest and took several deep breaths. Then he fixed me with his glittering brown eyes. “It didn’t take long before Adara realized she’d made a terrible mistake. She was miserable. At one point, she lost fifteen pounds and shaved her head. The poor girl looked like a wraith or a cancer victim. Still, she completed law school. I was proud of her for that. But then it got worse, much worse. Thomas relocated to Southern California and took Adara with him.”
I nodded and bit my lip. It got to me. We were two damaged souls on the edge of the slate-gray river. Small sailing craft in the distance, the burnt umber sky moving toward us.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I think I understand. Your daughter is a prisoner in her own home. Thomas Quincey won’t let her go. She’s afraid of him. She didn’t try to hide it. And deportation would be an utter disaster. But why is it necessary for Quincey to keep you under armed guard? Given Adara’s situation, you’re not going anywhere…”
“Precisely, Mr. Crane. It’s sheerest overkill. That’s Thomas’s way of sending a message––to remind us it could always get worse—while at the same time reminding my daughter to cooperate and play the role of a good wife. Up till now, I’m pretty sure Thomas has never hit her. But that, of course, could change.”
“Okay, now that I understand the situation, I need to ask you some questions, if I may?”
Mohammad nodded.
“Tell me what you can about Quincey’s background. Where he started out and how he became what he is today.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There on the edge of the broad gray river, shivering from the cold, Mohammad shook his head. “I don’t like to even talk about Thomas, but I’ll tell you what I know. As a young man, he was one of few among his peers who insisted arming and supporting the Mujahideen was a recipe for disaster. The neocons scoffed at him and told him he was a misguided liberal, out of touch with history.”
“So, what changed him?”
Mohammad thought it over. “Several things, really. In 1999, soon after Adara and I arrived here, with the help of several of his Saudi sources, Quincey helped to foil an al-Qaeda plot to bomb the main branch of the New York Public Library. Right there in midtown Manhattan. It was hushed up at the time but gave him tremendous cachet with both the State Department and the intelligence agencies. After that, he was quite the rising young star.”
“Then I guess he deserves some credit.”
“For that? Undoubtedly.”
“And then I suppose 9-11 drove him over the edge.”
Mohammad nodded. “Indeed, it did. Quincey had always loathed the covert relationship between al-Qaeda and certain elements in the CIA. The you scratch our back and we’ll scratch yours approach to covert statecraft. He thought it was not only traitorous but stupid and dangerous. But still, I’m sure he never believed anything like 9-11 could actually happen, not here in the U.S. It was a profound shock to him. After that, he became a hardliner focused on protecting American soil.”
“Which means,” I said, paraphrasing Agresti, “he’s probably not above launching false flag operations to fan anti-Muslim hysteria.”
Mohammad looked at me gravely. Then he gazed out over the water. “At this point, Thomas Quincey will stop at nothing to protect America in the manner he believes it needs to be protected. No matter how great the risk…And because of his high standing, he’s been given carte blanche. At least up until now…” Mohammad paused, poker-faced. Awaiting my next question.
“You mentioned his military service in Iraq. How did that affect him?”
“Badly.” Mohammad shivered. “It changed him dramatically. Thomas did two tours of duty in Afghanistan and four in Iraq, right up through the Al-Anbar Awakening. I rarely saw him during those years. Something happened while he was over there that shook him to the core, probably during his last tour of duty. Truthfully, I don’t want to know the details. What I do know is he was different after he came back. Before, even after 9-11, he was usually polite, even while embezzling my money and limiting my freedom of movement. And putting me through periodic debriefings to remind me who the master was…But after he came back from Al-Anbar, everything was different. He changed his name, like he wanted to erase the past. Ideologically, he became a complete isolationist.”
“When did the house arrest begin?”
Mohammad smiles ruefully. “I can tell you exactly, Mr. Crane. Three years, ten months, and eleven days ago.”
“What triggered that, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Adara asked him for a divorce. It was as simple as that, and as a result, my daughter and I are prisoners. Everything we do is monitored. We are watched from morning to night, me by my minders and Adara by the minions at the ICE office where she works. She is required to carpool with one of the flunkies. This is all to get back at her for asking for a divorce. Thomas knows perfectly well Adara would never take flight as long as I’m a prisoner here, because she knows he would take it out on me. Like the proverb says, she who has been bitten by a snake is scared of a rope on the ground. We live in constant fear. When Adara and I talk, we don’t actually talk because our calls are all recorded. I hear the despair in her voice, and I know she hears it in mine. I haven’t seen her for nearly four years. Like I said, I don’t care about myself. But my daughter, Mr. Crane, she is my only child.”
Trembling from the cold, his voice broke and he bowed his head…
I wanted time to think. Ruminate. Sift through the possibilities. Compare alternatives. But no. The turkey was roasting and I had to say something definitive. “Okay, sir, here’s how I see it. It’s clear we need to rescue you and your daughter, and we need to do it soon. We will need to synchronize both your escapes. My job is to figure out how to accomplish that. Once we’ve liberated you, you will stay underground at first, and we will get you new temporary identities. After that, who knows? It’s a risky proposition. If we can pull this off, you will want to bring all available cash with you. Once in hiding, you will probably not be able to access any of your bank accounts. For the record, I know several lawyers with impeccable credentials with whom you could place money in trust. It would be utterly safe, and you could draw upon it once you were underground. But I’m not going to kid you, sir. Going underground is an act of desperation. But I’m not sure you have any other choice.”
I glanced back toward the tunnel. No one. Then it struck me. Something was still missing. I turned to him. “What I don’t understand, though, is why is it still so important to Quincey to keep you under his thumb? Other than the money? 9-11 was seventeen years ago. You’ve been here for twenty years. What can you possibly have to offer at this point?”
Mohammad pondered. He turned and gazed out over the water, as if the answer lay somewhere between river and sky. Turned back toward me and spoke. “You’re right, Mr. Crane. Other than the money, I don’t have much to offer. The truth is, it’s purely revenge because Thomas knows Adara doesn’t love him.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and looked me in the eye. “So that’s it, Mr. Crane. That’s the story. But I must ask you in all candor. Based on your meeting with her, how desperate do you think my daughter is?”
Didn’t want to answer. Too much was riding on my reply. But I had no choice. “She’s desperate enough to have retained me. She specifically sent me here to talk with you. She wants us to come up with a plan.”
“I understand,” said Mohammad. He moved closer, reached out, and gripped both my forearms. “I want you to do exactly what you described. I want you to engineer a dual escape for my daughter and me. You must take us somewhere safe where we can regroup while you wave the magic wand and get us new identities. Are you capable of that?”
I frowned. Acting. Just a bit. Hate to admit it, but the huge potential payday both Adara and Agresti had hinted at was very attractive. “Let me put it this way, sir. I am more capable than most operatives of my ilk. For one thing, I do not give up. Obtaining the IDs is not that hard. Naturally, the escape part is more of a challenge.”
Mohammad nodded. “I want you to do everything you can. I am at your service, and you will be paid handsomely in the event you are able to bring this about.” He paused. “I’m at the Boston University library, half a kilometer east of here, beyond the bridge and the sailing pavilion, every weekday morning at ten a.m. researching a book I’m writing about Mesopotamia and the history of the Tigris-Euphrates Basin. It’s an innocuous project and Quincey has no objections. I have a dedicated email research account I use to communicate with other Middle Eastern scholars. The address is Mesopotamia445@gmail.com. The M is capitalized. Can you remember that?”
“I better write it down.” I produced a pen and a blank business card.
“Quincey believes this account is harmless and doesn’t bother to have it monitored closely. My Praetorian Guard is at its laziest on Monday mornings, so that would be the best time to make a break. I want you to make this your top priority. You should get in the habit of sending me occasional historical links to maintain contact—anything archaeological about Mesopotamia, Sumeria, Babylon, or Assyria. But be careful not to send them from the same email account twice.”
We agreed I would send him a link every few days once I was back in LA using email addresses like SumerianHistorian59@gmail.com. When it was time, I’d send two emails on consecutive days. Both links would reveal pictures of the big-eyed Sumerian gods. The first tagline would be two words. “Sumerian Gods.” The second would read “A God for Every Day of the Week.” I told him to be ready at all times. And that it might not be on a Monday. On the morning after the second email, we would meet at eleven a.m. near the loading zone where Jet had dropped me off. Adara would phone him the night before. She would say, “I had such a splitting headache; I wanted to cry,” and he would know it was time.
Time to go. I held out my hand but instead of shaking it, Mohammad surprised me with an ardent Arab kiss on either cheek. I responded in kind. A mark of our mutual faith and goodwill. I happened to look back toward the bridge. The three men were now in plain sight on the trail, halfway between us and the hardwood grove. They were moving slowly, like they hadn’t yet spotted us. “Go, Mohammad. Now. You can’t be seen with me.” I pushed him off the platform onto the trail and pointed him toward the bridge. Then I began walking casually toward the drop-off zone, which was about seventy-five yards from the river overlook. Mohammad began striding resolutely toward his minders.
They spotted him first and then me. Their casual pace quickened. Mohammad hesitated, then turned around, and without so much as a glance in my direction, started walking back toward the overlook. Buying time. I vaulted the barrier onto the shoulder of Soldiers Field Road. There was Jet, idling in the loading zone. I still had fifty yards to cover. The three skaters who had passed me earlier were now heading back toward the hardwood grove at breakneck speed, laughing and shouting. Mohammad stopped and stood there like a lone settler facing a buffalo stampede. The skaters streamed past him, one on his left, two on his right. They reached Mohammad’s minders within seconds. No room to pass. No time for proper braking. The three boys flew forward off their boards, taking out two of Mohammad’s guards. They all went down in a heap, while the third guard escaped by diving off the walkway. The first two jumped up, screaming at the boys who assessed the scene, grabbed their skateboards, and skedaddled. So did I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Greyhound bus pulled into Cleveland after midnight. A bleak dead time in the bus stations of America. Faces tight and drawn. Only people moving are the janitors. My timing was bad. Last bus to Columbus had already left. The next didn’t leave till five thirty in the morning.
Had a cabbie take me to a Best Western. Set the alarm on my phone and sacked out like a dead man. Caught the seven thirty Greyhound Express to Columbus. Even had time for breakfast. Reached Columbus before ten and caught a ten-thirty local to Athens, Ohio, which is where the bus turns around and heads back north.
