Guardian (4 page)

 

Chapter Six

M
ike smacked Haddad three times before the asshole finally woke up. And when he did, he found himself strapped down to the same table Mike had so recently occupied. Naked, too.

Payback's a bitch, motherfucker.

“What is going on?” Haddad's voice was rough. Exhausted. Confused. He didn't realize how deep in the shit he was.

Mike leaned in close. “Remember me?”

“Allah, be merciful.”

“He may be but it's not my style.” Mike lifted the amputation saw and wiggled it in the air, making sure the dim light reflected off it nicely in rapid flashes.
Flash, flash, flash. Just like what remains of your life.
“So tell me what I want to know and maybe I'll find some mercy in me somewhere.”

Haddad swallowed and shifted his head. The Israelis surrounded the table. Mike smirked as Haddad's eyes widened when they met Kitra's. Kitra was old school and seeing the missing finger hadn't surprised him. A touch on the dramatic and crude side, but very effective.

Mike slapped Haddad's cheek. “Hey, she's not your biggest concern right now. You think losing a finger is bad, wait until you see what I cut off.”

“She already threatened to cut off my dick and make me eat it.”

“Choke on it,” Kitra said. “Swallowing would have been your choice.”

Haddad returned to Mike, eyes watering. Snot ran down the side of his face in fat, stringy globs. Not such a tough guy after all.

“I have a wife and child,” he said.

Mike shrugged. “You didn't seem to care if I had a wife and child, did you?”

Haddad didn't reply.

“I'm going to ask you one question. Just one. You answer it truthfully, I'll let you live. Understand?”

“I do not believe you.”

Mike laughed. “I don't give a shit what you believe. I'm telling you how it is. Give me the truth and you'll live. Understand?”

Haddad nodded.

“There was a man here earlier. Very well-­kept. Nicely trimmed beard. Perfect teeth. Expensive clothes. He seemed to be the man in charge around here. Who is he?”

“He will kill me.”

“Motherfucker, I'm going to kill you if you don't give me his name. Now spit it out.”

“You will let me live?”

“Yes.”

“And your friends will let me live?”

Mike glanced at Kitra, who gave a slight nod. “Yes.”

“Forgive me.” Haddad took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Kharija bin Al-­Aswad.”

“Look me in the eyes,” Mike said.

Haddad opened his eyes and focused on Mike's.

“Tell me again. Who is he?”

Haddad didn't hesitate. Didn't blink. His face never twitched. He didn't lick his lips. In a flat voice he said, “Kharija bin Al-­Aswad.”

Not lying, Mike thought. At least, as far as Haddad knew. It might not be the guy's real name, but to Haddad it sure as hell was.

“Where did he go?” Mike asked.

“You said one question.”

“I lied.”

“I do not know. He comes and goes. I am not high enough in our order to have that kind of information.”

Order?
It was the first he'd heard the term applied to the guardians. It seemed an appropriate word. But for some reason it also gave him the creeps.

Mike moved away from the table. “How often do your ­people come by here?”

“There will be a transport arriving this evening. They had orders to move you after your . . . operation.”

“Really? Where to?”

“I do not know. It involved a flight but I do not know the destination.”

Mike nodded. “Well, when they get here they'll find you and free you. In the meantime, you'll stay strapped down.”

“You said you would let me live.”

“And I am. I never said anything about freeing you.”

Kitra and her men left the room without saying anything. As Mike followed them, Haddad called after him, “What am I supposed to do until my ­people arrive?”

“Ponder your life.”

Outside, the team loaded into the Land Rover. Before Mike could climb in, however, Kitra pulled him aside. “You think this is wise, leaving him alive?”

Mike shrugged. “Probably not. But I gave him my word. And I'm trying to avoid killing ­people if I can at this point in my life.”

Kitra chuckled. “Not kill anyone? Interesting choice of careers, then. You Americans . . .”

Mike got in the backseat and the car sped off toward An Nasiriyah. His left arm, secured by a makeshift sling, throbbed. He needed more pain meds. Now. For the second time that day he wished for his flask.

Focus on the job.

As he rode, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Glenn Cheatum.

K
harija sat in the Gulfstream-­V, looking out the window as the plane passed above the desert of northern Iraq en route to Beirut, and pieced his explanation together. His defense. His excuse. He rehearsed his speech over and over in his head but it never sounded right, no matter how many times he went through it. Plain and simple, he had lost the American and Nassir would be furious. He only hoped—­no, prayed—­his wife and daughter would not suffer as a result.

His cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Mayyat.

“Yes, Mayyat.”

“The rescue team has left the school with the American. Looks like they are en route to An Nasiriyah. Do you wish me to follow?”

“No. There is too much attention on the American right now. Did they take Haddad with them?”

“No.”

“No?”

“In fact, they left him alive. I reconnoitered the building after they departed. They strapped Haddad down to Gazzar's table. Presumably left him for dead.”

Kharija considered that. It seemed a malicious thing to do. The Westerners he had encountered would torture, sure, but they always finished the person off when they were done, or took them as a prisoner, at the very least. This was something . . . else. Something colder, perhaps.

Or was it?

Haddad knew a retrieval team was coming that evening for the American. Had he brokered a deal? His life for information about Kharija?

“Kharija, are you there?”

“I want you to contact one of our ­people in the order,” Kharija said.

“For what?”

“Tell them I have been captured and am being held prisoner at the school.”

“T
hanks for calling the Mossad,” Mike said.

“You owe me one. Again.” Glenn sat behind his desk, sipping a glass of Kettle One on the rocks. “Kitra treating you okay?”

“More than hospitable.”

“Good.” Glenn turned to his computer's flat screen and saw a new e-­mail in his in-­box. “There's a spot on a military transport out of Baghdad waiting for you. You're going to be routed through Germany. Get some follow-­up medical treatment there. Then you'll be on your way home. How's the shoulder, by the way?”

“Fucked. I guess I should be thankful the shoulder blade wasn't too damaged. But I won't be jerking off with this arm for a while.”

“Let the docs in Deutschland tell you that. You might be surprised. They may give you the Mr. Miyagi treatment.”

“Better than the Mengele treatment.” There was a brief hesitation on the other end. “Thanks again, Glenn. You really saved my ass.”

“Just put it on the list of all the other weird shit you have to tell me when you get back. Amputation saw? Jesus.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“And this wasn't just about revenge for killing some of their bubbas that night of the attack?”

“You wouldn't believe me right now if I told you the reason. Hell, you'll probably never believe it.”

“Your life is starting to sound like a bad horror movie. Travel safe.”

“Will do.”

Glenn hung up and turned his attention to the e-­mail. He double-­clicked it. From Steve Ogden:

Congrats, Glenn. Now I own your soul. —­Steve

Shit, Glenn thought and deleted the e-­mail.

 

Chapter Seven

A
bu Umar rocked in the passenger seat, forcing him to brace his elbow against the armrest, as the Toyota Land Cruiser turned sharply to the left and into the parking lot of an old abandoned school. He glanced at the driver for a moment, ready to smack him for such recklessness, but restrained himself. Their work tonight was of the utmost importance, and losing his patience on something so trivial would only serve as a distraction. Abu needed his focus sharp and pointed for this operation.

The driver switched the headlights off and braked hard, causing the vehicle to skid and fishtail slightly. Abu and the three other men did not wait for it to completely stop, springing out, AK-­47s in their hands. They moved to the front entrance, where they found the bodies of several guards, all shot twice through the head.

Abu paused for a moment and examined the corpses. Double-­tap entry wounds to the skulls. Professionally done. Several hours ago, at least. He opened the top of each of their shirts and shook his head when he saw the tattoos. They were too late. The captive was long gone.

“What do we do now, Abu?”

He motioned with his head toward the door. “We complete our mission.”

“He is not here, though.”

“We must search anyway.” Abu motioned to the bodies. “Someone killed them and we must find out whom.”

They continued into the school, switching on the flashlights mounted to the wooden foregrip of their rifles. They swept the beams back and forth in the cavernous hallways, proceeding slowly as they moved from room to room.

As two of the men searched a room, two stood in the hallway outside, covering in case whoever killed the guards returned. Abu was one of them, eyes trained down the length of the barrel, ready for anyone who might show up.

It took them twenty minutes to clear the classrooms. Only one room remained. The cafeteria. They reached it and stacked outside the doors. Abu nodded and led them in.

When they opened the doors, his flashlight beam hit the body of a naked man strapped to a metal table. He assumed the man was dead until he noticed his chest rise and fall.

“Help me,” the man said in a hoarse voice. He struggled against the straps. “Get these off of me.”

Abu did not recognize him until he stepped closer. When he did, he put a calming hand on the man's shoulder. His light passed over the skin, illuminating the tattoos. “Who guards the prison?”

The man relaxed under the weight of the question. “The watchmen who never sleep.”

“Brother Haddad,” Abu said.

“Brother Umar.”

“What happened, Amol?”

Amol Haddad licked his dried and cracked lips. “Free me first.”

“Of course.” Abu motioned for the others to help. A minute later Haddad was sitting up and drinking from a canteen

“Better?”

Haddad nodded.

Abu noticed the crusted bloody stump on Haddad's right hand. “You have suffered greatly.”

“Israelis.”

“Mossad?”

Haddad nodded and swallowed a mouthful.

Abu shook his head. “Nasty work.”

“Barbarians.” Haddad drank more water.

“Are you strong enough to tell me what happened now?”

“Yes.” Haddad set the canteen down. “The American showed up at the construction site. When he did, I contacted Kharija as ordered.”

American? Kharija?
As ordered?
“Go on.”

“Kharija had ­people standing by, ready in case the American came. When he did, they overtook him and brought him here.”

“And then the Israelis arrived at the construction site?”

“Yes, searching for the American spy.”

This was not good. An American spy. Israeli Mossad. What was going on here? What had Kharija gotten involved in? And what had he gotten the order involved in against its will?

“The Israelis tortured me,” Haddad said. “Obvious, I know. I had no choice but to tell them Kharija brought him here. I have lost my honor.”

Abu rubbed his forehead. “Why did they leave you alive?”

“The American swore to let me live if I gave him Kharija's name.”

Abu smirked. “He wanted Kharija's name?”

“Yes. I think he plans to go after him.”

Maybe this was not a bad turn of events after all. But first he needed to know more about the American. “Amol, did Kharija tell you why the American was so important?”

“All he said was that an American may visit the site, asking questions about the prison. I figured out the real reason, though.”

“Really? How so?”

“The American did not just know about the prison and the jinn. He had encountered them both.”

He had encountered the jinn and lived, Allah, be merciful. What was Kharija planning?

“Amol, it is unfortunate you have allowed yourself to be misled.”

“Misled? What do you mean?”

“Kharija is a dead man.”

“I do not understand. I talked to him myself. He is as alive as you or I.”

“No, he is a dead man who has yet to be killed.” Abu rubbed the stock of his rifle. “He has betrayed our order.”

Haddad's mouth moved but no words came out. After a few seconds he said, “What are you doing here, then?”

“We were told Kharija was being held here. As a prisoner.”

Haddad shook his head. “I was told you were coming to pick up the American.”

“We know nothing about this American.”

“Then who—­”

“Clearly Kharija played both of us. I received a call that he had been captured. You were told we were coming to pick up an American spy. It was Kharija spreading lies to perpetuate his own plan.”

Haddad looked away, the betrayal clearly setting in. “And that is?”

“We have not figured that part out yet.”

Haddad buried his face in his maimed hand. “How long ago did Kharija betray us?”

“We figured it out two weeks ago. How long he has been working against us only he and Allah know. We thought we had him cornered in Cairo last week but he was ready. Had his own private guard made up of other traitors. Three true Brothers died that night.”

“I have not checked in for almost a month.”

“Which is why you did not know Kharija was a wanted man. You have become lazy in your duties, Amol.”

“The foreman job has been eating all of my time.”

“The job is not your primary duty. Have we not learned anything from the failure to keep the prison sealed? Remember Basra? It is still under cordon. The world still does not know the truth of what happened. Yet we continue to go about our daily lives as if everything is normal. We know the truth, Amol, but we are not the only ones. We must be more alert than ever. The prison was opened. Now, one of our own has turned from the light to the shadows and is working against us.”

“The shadows.” Haddad seemed to roll the word around in his mouth. “You are sure?”

“Without a doubt.”

Haddad nodded. “I am sorry for my failure. It will not happen again. We will find Kharija.”

“We will.”

Abu patted Haddad on the shoulder and moved away from the table. He walked over to where one of his men stood, his light shining on the fallen body of a fat man. Heavily bearded. Nice round hole in the center of his forehead. Loose jowls. Thick lips. Something about him, though . . .

Abu recognized the dead man just as he heard commotion behind him. He spun around to see Haddad snapping the neck of the driver and freeing the gun from his now dead hands. The AK-­47 rose, the flashlight attached to it blinding him. Abu fired without aiming, knowing he only had a second before Haddad would shoot.

Haddad screamed and the flashlight beam dropped away from Abu, who shined his own light on the floor and found Amol Haddad clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers. He let loose a half scream, half groan. Abu frowned at the immediate satisfaction growing in him at the sound, the pain. This was not a moment to enjoy on any level.

“Kharija bought you,” Abu said, walking toward him, light on his dying Brother's face. “But the Israelis and the torture were not part of the deal, were they? Nor was us arriving. You never thought Kharija would betray you, too, even though he has so easily cast aside his honor and loyalty. When did he approach you?”

Haddad said nothing, only coughed blood around his intermittent cries. Abu put the heel of his boot on Haddad's stomach and pushed down. The man's cries became wails, echoing off the walls around them.

“When?” Abu lifted his boot away. “And do not forget our methods are more gruesome than anything the Israelis would have done. They may be barbarians, but we are guardians and do what we need in order to protect.”

“A year ago.” The words came fast in a labored whisper.

A year ago.
They have been conspiring for so long?
“Kharija was sent to kill Gazzar a year ago. Instead of killing this butcher, Kharija approached you?”

“Kharija and Gazzar approached me.” Haddad coughed some more blood. “Gazzar was already working for him. He was Kharija's muscle until they gathered more men. Gazzar shifted his duties to torturer, doing what he did so well; butchering until you could not say no.”

“And Gazzar cut you?”

“He did not have to. As soon as I saw Gazzar, I knew. His presence was enough.”

Abu knew that Gazzar had already been working for Kharija. How far back did Kharija's treachery stretch? Gazzar had lost his mind and started killing members of the order in horrible ways. They had found the severed remains of seven before they located Gazzar and his butcher tools. The order's surgeon who had gone crazy. Only he had not gone crazy. He had only switched loyalty. And Kharija had lied about killing him. Instead, he spared Gazzar and put him to work for himself.

Was it possible Kharija had given Gazzar the order to kill those seven? Abu did not want to ponder it too much. If it was true, Kharija had spent the last ­couple of years planning the downfall of the order from within. And he was still loose, moving about, preparing another assault against them or planning to turn more to his cause. Who else worked for him now?

“Why did these traitors want you?” Abu asked.

“They wanted someone stationed near the prison. They did not say why. I was to report to them if the actual location was ever discovered.”

“Yet you were not there when the prison was found and opened.”

Haddad spat. “Henry Prince, the old foreman, moved me off-­site to shipping and receiving for a few days. It was out of my control.”

“You crawled into bed with a snake and a madman.” Abu spat on Haddad's face. “What is Kharija planning?”

“I do not know.”

“Do not lie to me anymore, Amol. Your death is certain. Do not give me any more reason to prolong it through pain.”

“Kharija does not tell, he orders. I only receive orders.”

“Not anymore.”

Abu fired and silenced Haddad forever. He turned away and looked at the two remaining members of the team. Could he still trust them? Or had Kharija sunk his claws into them as well?

Do not succumb to paranoia,
he told himself.
Be watchful and alert, not fearful.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His control and focus regained, he said, “Leave the bodies here. We have work to do and have already wasted too much time.”

M
ayyat Sadat watched through his night vision binoculars as the Land Cruiser sped away from the school. As the automobile turned out of the parking lot, it accelerated past him and his car, which sat off the road in the sand near a decrepit, bombed-­out ruin of a government building. Once they were well away—­traveling toward An Nasiriyah, he assumed—­Mayyat lifted his cell phone from the center console and dialed.

“Yes?” Kharija said when he answered.

“They are gone.”

“And Haddad?”

“Not in the car with them. I heard gunfire and screaming. I am sure they killed him but I will check anyway.”

“Who was with them?”

“Abu Umar. The others I did not recognize.”

“Abu is smart. He realized Haddad was a traitor when he saw Gazzar, I am positive. Now Abu will resume his hunt for me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unavoidable. They must hunt and I must kill any who stand in my way. The order will not stop me. I cannot allow it.”

“Do you want me to eliminate Abu?”

“No time. Let them come. We must find the American. Without him any further actions are impossible.”

“Very well. I will find him right away.”

“Do you have enough information?”

“Enough to start. It should not be too difficult to draw him into the open.”

“Keep me informed.”

The line died. Mayyat set the phone down and stared out into the clear night. A slight wind rocked palm trees in the distance.

Enough to start
. He reached for the file on the passenger seat and flipped it open. A picture of Michael Caldwell was paper-­clipped to a small stack of pages. The man looked like a common Westerner. Average height. Dark hair. Medium build. No discerning scars or tattoos. The picture showed him at the construction site, arguing with the late Haddad.

Mayyat lifted the picture. Underneath was a list of names, compiled by Kharija's informants over the last few weeks. Mayyat was always impressed at the amount of intelligence Kharija was able to assemble. He shouldn't be, he knew. After all, Kharija had spent many years as an intelligence officer both for the Republican Guard and the order. But still, the fact that he had gathered all of this information on an American CIA agent in only a few weeks had to be admired. It was almost unbelievable.

Then again, Mayyat did know who Kharija was working for. Nassir, no doubt, had better resources than even Kharija. But could even Nassir discover such a wealth of information in such a short amount of time?