A Cold Day In Mosul (9 page)

When Ethan reported back, he made it very clear that the militants were holed up near the center of town, and that civilians were still present in other parts of the village. The CO instructed Ethan to maneuver to a hilltop three kilometers to the south for a night-time pickup.

That evening, as he waited for the extract, the attack came. The gunfire exchange went on for about five minutes before the hunter killer team decided to use white phosphorous to illuminate the area. Unfortunately, one of the mortar shells fell short. That was the official explanation, anyway.

Ethan ran as fast as he could back to the village, but by then he was too late.

He'd quit the military shortly after that. Sam, a former member of Black Squadron herself, had talked him into working for her directly. She told him things would be different under her. That he would be the one pulling the trigger on any intel he gathered, not JSOC.

Ethan inhaled deeply of the cold, crisp air. He'd sworn he would never return to that forsaken land. And yet there he was. Iraq awakened memories inside of him, memories that were probably better left buried.

William offered him a piece of cooked fish wrapped in flatbread, and Ethan reluctantly accepted.

Doug suddenly looked up. He seemed excited. "Got a hit."

Ethan spread his hands. "Please, elaborate."

"Got an embed who's heard a certain high ranking US operative has been captured. And that this operative is being interrogated at an Islamic State black site far from the main prisons."

"That's basically what we suspected already," Ethan said. "Does he have an address for us?"

Doug sat cross-legged near him and dug into the barbecued carp wrap that William had set aside. "Unfortunately, no."

Ethan stared at Doug with open annoyance. "Then how the hell does that help us?"

Doug bit off another piece of masgûf. "He says he talked to a man who smuggled scopolamine into the country."

"Scopolamine?" William said.

"Yes. A known persuasion drug, of questionable use during interrogations."

Ethan was familiar with the compound. Some people were extremely susceptible: you could blow the powder form into their face, or drop it in their drink, and then they'd do anything you told them, such as emptying the contents of their wallets. When the drug wore off, the victims had no memory of what transpired. It was a popular date rape drug in Columbia, where about one in five emergency room admissions for poisoning were attributed to the compound. Attractive women used it too, targeting wealthy individuals in bars, casinos and nightclubs.

Side effects could include hallucinations, somnolence, headache, rapid heart rate, and blurred vision. The drug often caused "desert" mouth, drying up the throat so badly that victims could barely talk, even if they were ready and eager. Throat lozenges dissolved in apple juice helped. Scopolamine could cause respiratory failure if the dosage was too great, which was why it was usually administered only under careful medical supervision. Because of all these side effects, the drug was rarely used as a "truth serum" in intelligence circles, since conventional psychological breakdown techniques often produced better results. Still, he had occasionally seen it used in combination with other interrogation methods at various DIA black sites.

"He says this man smuggled the drug into Mosul," Doug continued. "And delivered it to a doctor associated with the Islamic State. Apparently this doc is their go-to guy when it comes to interrogations, and he's attended several sessions at the main prison, acting as medical advisor. If anyone knows the location of the black site where they're keeping Sam, it would be this doc."

"Unless they blindfold him before bringing him to the site," William said.

"In which case, we lay low and follow him," Ethan said.

"They also might be keeping him at the black site for the duration of her interrogations," William said. "In which case, there's no one
to
follow."

Ethan considered that. "Good point."

"It'd be the smart thing to do," William added.

"But since when is the Islamic State considered smart?" Doug asked.

"Don't underestimate them," Ethan said. "The rank and file are little more than cannon fodder, yes, but the higher-ups are usually very dangerous men."

"Usually," Doug agreed.

"First of all," Ethan continued. "Do we even have an address on this doc?"

Doug nodded. "We do."

"Good," Ethan said. "Let's see where his morning commute takes him."

"My thoughts exactly. We're getting up early tomorrow, boys."

nine

S
am sat in the chair, barely able to hold her head upright. Her long, luxurious hair had been shaved away to the skin. She could see only out of one eye—the other was swollen shut. Three of her fingernails were covered in bloody bandages. Her body ached in several places beneath her abaya. Movement only worsened the pain, so she remained as still as she could.

Through her blurry vision, the shadows flitted about her, sometimes slowly, other times maniacally. She knew they weren't real. Knew they were hallucinations. Still, they frightened her. It wasn't so much the moving shadows that scared her, but the thought she might be going mad.

Her throat burned. She tried to gather saliva to swallow but her mouth was utterly dry.

A glass appeared in front of her. From the color, she thought it might be apple juice. She saw two copies of the glass, slightly offset from one another, their separation varying slightly with each moment.

"Drink," a man's voice commanded in Arabic.

She focused on the glass. She felt a nearly overwhelming urge to obey to the man, as if pleasing him were the most important thing in the world. And yet, as she slowly reached for it, a voice at the back of her mind scolded her:
Do not listen! Do not!

She withdrew her hand as if scalded.

"Her will begins to return," the voice continued. "The drug is wearing off." She felt a cool instrument crudely press against her left breast. She realized, vaguely, that it was a stethoscope. "Her heart is racing. I recommend two days off before the next session."

Another man stepped into view, his face hidden by a balaclava. He retrieved what Sam assumed was a digital recording device from the table and then stepped away.

Someone else appeared in front of her. He wore no masks: his features weren't Arabic, but rather... Russian?

"My old enemy, the great
Ankabūt Sawdā
," the Russian said in nearly fluent Gulf Arabic. Black Widow. "You have so many titles in intelligence circles. Purveyor of Secrets. Puppet Master. Regime Changer. I remember you in your prime. You moved in the shadows, spreading your web of intrigue and deceit across the Middle East. You often played both sides against one another, as suited your whims, though the outcomes were not always in your favor. You fanned the flames of the Arab Spring, for example, and look at how well that turned out for you. If anyone is to blame for the rise of the Islamic State, it is you." He shook his head. "Though I suppose I should give you some credit. I've profited greatly from the chaos you've stirred since I gave you up. But I must admit, I find it amusing to find you now, like this, after all these years. I hunted you for so long, my old enemy, and when I'm not looking you simply drop yourself into my lap. The irony does not escape me."

He sat himself down into the chair opposite her. "You've told us everything, Widow.
Everything
. All the operatives you have in the region, all your contacts, all your assets. We know you work directly for the Secretary of Defense. We know exactly what you had planned to do here. You are broken. A mere shell of the woman you once were. I look forward to reviewing all the intel we have acquired from you in the coming days. But first, tell me—"

Sam blinked. The man was gone. Her cheek was throbbing. She realized he must have struck her, but she couldn't remember what had happened. She slowly glanced around her, fighting the dizziness that the movement brought. Nobody else was there with her: she sat alone beside the table.

Her vision gradually began to clear. The shadows still flitted about but there were less of them. She realized she resided in a small, white-painted cell. The table and two chairs were the only furniture. A flickering shaft of light shone from a small panel set into the top half of the door. Light sourced from a torch, perhaps—that would explain why the shadows were flitting.

She searched her memory, but remembered nothing whatsoever of the interrogation session. The Russian had said she'd told them everything. But had she truly? It certainly felt like it.

She realized her right hand also pulsed with fresh pain. She glanced at it: the last two digits were newly bandaged, with a bloodstain slowly spidering through the gauze near the fingernail region. Yes, she must have resisted. Still, it frightened her that she couldn't remember what she had told them. These symptoms were similar to a drug she had utilized on interrogation subjects in the past, she felt certain, but because of the brain fog she couldn't recall what it was.

I must continue to resist. I must. Allah, make me strong.

Finally she slumped forward, laying her head on the table in defeat. The blissful oblivion of sleep took her.

* * *

Peering through the small view panel in the door, Dmitri watched the woman collapse. He smiled faintly, then slid the aperture closed.

He thrummed his fingers distractedly on the wooden surface. She was a strong one, the Black Widow. It was said those who could resist ordinary interrogation could resist equally well under narcosis. Sometimes that proved true, sometimes not. The Widow was a perfect example of the former.

Still, he would break her eventually. He was good at breaking people. The Islamic State had requested his involvement precisely for that reason. During his tenure with the Spetsnaz, he had learned how to properly interrogate a subject under narcosis, among other useful skills. He could tell when a subject was playacting, pretending he or she was too drugged to speak. And because he was a man intimately familiar with the inner workings of the intelligence machine, he knew precisely what questions to ask, and when.

He toyed with the idea of doubling her dosage the next time. He wasn't too concerned about her becoming addicted to the drug. It would only make his work easier. But killing her too soon was the problem. That, and the fact that any more of the chemical would make her thoughts and speech even more incoherent.

No, doubling the dosage wasn't the solution. But what was, then? Everyone had their breaking point. Some trigger. He would find it. He swore he would.

His satphone rang. He fished the device from his harness and answered. "Yes?"

"I have some news you might find interesting," Victor told him.

As Dmitri listened further, a smile spread across his face.

You are mine, Black Widow.

ten

D
octor Isam ibn Khaldun finished the final prayer of the day and relaxed in his sitting room with the holy Quran. A candle burning on the table provided the only light. Outside, the stars of late evening twinkled. A lone bird sung somewhere nearby, its plaintive cry piercing the cold night in a fitting lament to the Iraq of today.

He had seen the country change so greatly during his day, and yet in the end it was very much the same. So much fighting. So much death.
Allah help us.

It was all because of World War I. In the aftermath, the infidels who partook in the spoils of war drew a single border around three separate and ethnically diverse Ottoman provinces, calling the result "Iraq." What they failed to realize was that grouping so many different communities under a single roof would not work, not in the long run. Tribal, secular, and ethnic divisions inevitably created tension, especially when those communities were subjected to a succession of authoritarian regimes favoring one sect or another.

The latest regime was Dawla—the Islamic State. Their members were Sunni. It was little wonder that most of the Iraqi cities conquered so far were of Sunni majority, and that local Sunni youths dominated their ranks. Doctor Isam was Sunni himself, otherwise he would have been forced to flee the coming of Dawla like the other minorities. While he didn't agree with everything Dawla did, they were the best alternative to Shia authoritarian rule currently available, and he would support them until a better option became available. The Shia and their Iran masters had nearly taken over the country, and he saw any Sunni government, even one as brutal as Dawla, as a good thing.

Would there be peace in his time? Would the tribes and communities be left alone to govern themselves, irrespective of what the overall country was called? Isam somehow doubted it. Perhaps even his sons and daughters would never see peace. It was a terrible thought.

He focused his attention on the Quran, his only comfort during these trying times. It always amazed him, the Quran. There were so many subtle nuances to the sacred text. So many interpretations. The older he became, the more he realized how little he had understood the book in his youth. Read literally, it was a grand story of hegira, and the fight against injustice in the world. Read figuratively, it was a life-changing tome. He always learned something new upon every reread; there were so many ways to interpret any given passage, so many subtleties and facets hidden in the text. Certain interpretations that never occurred to him in his youth became starkly obvious when viewed through the lens of age. Take one key sentence from the passage he was currently reading:

Permission to take up arms is hereby given to those who are attacked because they have been oppressed.

The passage applied to his own situation. He had been helping Dawla interrogate a certain woman. He had participated in other interrogations before, but hers was the most brutal. Still, he felt no pity or compassion for her. Though she had professed dedication to Allah, she was an infidel. Under duress, she had admitted to involvement in many terrible activities, operations involving the killing of innocent Muslims. She had certainly attacked the oppressed. Her actions revealed her true nature: she was a spider, as the Russian brute had said. Something meant to be trod underfoot. He felt no guilt for what was done to her, nor his own involvement in her torture. None whatsoever. He was doing Allah's work by participating; he knew that for certain. The arms he took up were the needle and the stethoscope, and he would use them for as long as he was able.