The Crisis (60 page)

People had a habit of suddenly disappearing, in this country. She'd never found Nuura, either, though she'd asked every Ashaaran she knew. Most just shook their heads, not even daring to speak.

The baby . . . she couldn't leave Nuura's newborn girl there to die. She'd taken her in through the compound gate with her huge carpet-purse riding in the passenger seat, the clasp undone. Fortunately the infant hadn't made a sound. Tonight she was with one of the cleaning women, in a makeshift crib in the employees' shed.

The guard led them up a stairwell, AK at port arms.

Olowe received them in a partially restored office in a corner tower. Tall windows with bowed antique glass that distorted the lights outside looked down on the forecourt, the fountain, all semiobscured in the wavering veil the wind drew, then pulled back. A desk lamp was tilted up to reflect off the freshly painted ceiling. In the corner a crone with a widow's hump sang to herself at a desk, tapping slowly at an antique cast-iron Olivetti with a platen a yard long. Aisha did a double take. The transcriptionist who'd spoken Italian to Erculiano. As indestructible and enduring, apparently, as the brick walls.

The general appeared less imposing tonight, almost ingratiating as he came forward with hands outstretched. But he was still too huge to feel comfortable with indoors. He wore not a uniform but a dark blue civilian suit, buttons straining over his massive chest. His black tie was inexpertly knotted. He enveloped Peyster in a bear hug from which the RSO emerged with sandy hair tousled and shirt spotted with the general's sweat. To her surprise, he reached for her hand too. Aisha tried both to meet his eyes and to not stare at his face. Was this the man whose troops were evicting whole neighborhoods? Could that pale patch of unpigmented skin have grown?

Olowe spoke sharply to the guard, who about-faced smartly, British-style, and took up a position in the hallway. Aisha met the old woman's sly glance over the typewriter; they exchanged minute nods.

A slim shadow hesitated at the door. The young man looked uncomfortable in the short-sleeved white shirt and dark slacks that seemed to be business formal in East Africa. Olowe spoke and the old woman tottered to a side table. She served tea and biscotti. The young man shifted on his chair, not meeting their eyes. He gazed at the moving shadows outside the window, then at his tea. Steam rose, curling in the dim hot air.

“Ali Wasami Hasheer,” Peyster murmured. “One of Al-Khasmi's closest associates.”

“Actually, we've met. In the desert.” She smiled at the young man, who dropped his gaze to her feet. Oh, yes, she remembered him. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been pointing a rifle at her GrayWolf bodyguard's head. He looked away, then back, as if reluctantly drawn to her shoes. She set her purse on the floor, the unclasped top facing him.

Olowe began speaking. This time, to Aisha's surprise, in crude English. He'd obviously been studying. When he hesitated she or Peyster would suggest a word and he'd repeat it, slowly, as if tasting it, then resume. He introduced the young man as Ali. “He is with one some call Al-Maahdi. One of his young
fedahin.
”

“We know of Mr. Hasheer, and his high position with the Waleeli Brotherhood,” Peyster said. “We're looking forward to exchanging views. If that's the purpose of this meeting.”

Of course it wasn't. All four knew that. Peyster had explained on the way. “One of Al-Maahdi's boys wants to come in from the cold. Our job's to milk him for all he's worth, then see if we can turn him like Whiteface thinks we can. If we can recruit him, he may be the key to your hostage-swap takedown. Olowe wants to be the go-between, but doesn't want it known. That's why we're going at night. Just us, him, the guy, and his personal SS.”

“Can you trust him?” she'd asked.

The RSO had just smiled. “Can I trust you? Can you trust me?”

“I hope you can trust me.”

“Of course I do.” He'd patted her hand, and a chill had skittered up her back like an icy-footed roach.

Olowe had explained as the insurgent listened impassively. Now Hasheer began speaking, in Arabic. She took over the conversation, understanding it better than Olowe's Ashaaran. The piebald general sat back, lighting a cigar and listening intently, though she wondered how much he was picking up.

“Our official”—she nodded to Peyster—“welcomes you and wishes to know you better. We are both the general's guests tonight, as we are your guests in your land.”

“What's he saying?” the RSO asked.

“Just getting through the preliminaries, Terry. It won't pay to rush this, believe me. I've got to build empathy first.”

The Ashaaran mumbled compliments in return, and gradually they got down to business. “The general tells us you've grown from being a supporter of Al-Maahdi, or Al-Khasmi as he is called, to believing it's better for the Ashaari to cooperate with the UN until the famine ends. Correct?”

The young man leaned from side to side in his chair and explained in great earnestness that he'd fought at Ghedi's side—

“ ‘Ghedi' is Al-Khasmi?”

“Yes. I fought by him in many battles. But he was wounded at Uri'yah, when he defeated the troops of your—your democrats. Since then, he's
changed. For a time I believed truly that the Waleeli brought life to the people and did the will of God.”

She nodded, urging him on. To hear from a jihadist what made him tick—she didn't have to feign interest. “That's what I find difficult, discerning God's will for me. It's hard.”

“Yes. Very hard.”

He met her eyes for the first time. Compassion and empathy: that was what made an informant useful. She'd be his big sister—no, his fellow searcher for Truth. “What is it for the Brotherhood? As Ghedi understands it?”

“That the Americans are here to take over our country. We must resist their godlessness and evil. That is the great jihad the holy Sheekh Nassir, peace be with him, declared before you killed him. We Waleeli would unite all Ashaarans and eject the foreigners, then govern in accordance with the Book. To teach righteousness, and enforce the holy law.”

“You took great risks for this goal. The Waleeli are brave fighters.”

An eye flick to Olowe, then back to her shoes. “I did. There's been so much suffering. How could a government of God not be better?”

“What changed his mind?” Peyster asked. So he was following at least a word here and there.

She said to Hasheer, “The high official thanks you for coming with your heart open. He respects your devotion to your suffering people. Will you tell a bit more about your leader? He's of great interest. One who fights us, yes, but who is in his way a great man. A patriot, too.” She said a
du'a
to ask forgiveness for that lie.

Peyster asked again what was going on. She told him to be patient. Olowe shifted behind his desk, tapping cigar ash onto the floor.

Hasheer said his master was from the south, orchard country. His family had been broken up during the time of the Morgue and he'd grown up fighting. He could barely read, but was a man of honor. He was brave and noble. His men loved him. But the wound had changed him. He'd begun killing without reckoning the cost, even ordering his own brother beheaded. The man he admired had gone mad.

She nodded, as if disillusionment with a once-worshipped leader and no other motive lay behind his presence. She asked about his master's other lieutenants, and he described them. Peyster stirred and sat forward as Hasheer went on to describe a Saudi who served one he called the Prince of Believers.

“This Yousef. He's not from Ashaara?”

“No. He's Saudi. Very well dressed, courteous. His family is rich, I think. His plan is to use the Waleeli to install a Shura council dominated
by the Arabs. After which, they'll have no more use for Al-Khasmi, so I think they will kill him. If by then his mouth, his wound, does not cause him to die.” The slight young man spread his hands as if to say,
It is not my will.

“Interesting. So you don't want Ashaara dominated by Arabs, any more than by Americans.”

“The Arabs have brought us great suffering in the past.”

“Do others feel as you do?”

“Perhaps, but no one dares speak of it.”

Her fingers itched for a pen, but they'd have to depend on the digital recorder noiselessly eavesdropping in her purse. If the scratch and hiss of dust on the windows didn't blur his words, obliterate his speech. Then she'd take away only what memory could carry. “I can understand that,” she said encouragingly. “Tell me, who is this ‘Prince of Believers'?”

“I have heard, an Arab named Usama bin Laden. For that reason, I asked to see General Olowe. The honored general answered courteously that he'd like me to meet his friends, the Americans.” He eyed her. “I did not think they would be like you. You speak very good Arabic. Where are you from? Kenya?”

“New York City.”

His mouth actually came open. She used that moment of astonishment. “Yes, many things they say about America are not true. We wish only prosperity for Ashaara, for a peaceful world means peace for us too. Then our soldiers can leave. Though I hope we'll remain friends.

“Now let us speak of the hostages your master holds. Have you seen them? How many? Are they treated well?”

The next half hour yielded a good deal of useful information. Ali Hasheer stated firmly that he'd personally seen the hostages. Some had died, of various diseases, but fourteen were alive. Where, he refused to say, since that would reveal his master's location. Nor would he give figures on troop strengths or organization for the insurgent forces. She didn't push too hard. Her main concerns were the hostages, and Al-Maahdi himself.

Plus one question for Olowe, before they left.

The general had been sitting back, puffing out smoke. Now he cleared his throat and got up. “Mr. Peyster,” he said, interrupting Aisha in midsentence.

“Yes, General.”

“Here are my thoughts. You know why Al-Maahdi wants ransom?”

“To buy weapons, is our guess.”

“Correct, to buy helicop'er missiles.”

“Um, to buy—I'm sorry—?”

Olowe mimed pointing a shoulder-fired weapon, pulling a trigger. Aisha grimaced. “Antiaircraft missiles?”

“From China.”

Peyster said, “Is this true?” Hasheer hesitated, then nodded. The RSO sat back, looking grave.

The general said heavily that in view of their new alliance with the Americans, the Governing Council could not allow such weapons in the country. Hasheer was prepared to cooperate in arranging Al-Maahdi's capture. If the Americans would agree to furnish the ransom, the insurgent lieutenant would arrange the turnover of the hostages. In return, he, General Olowe, pledged to reward Ali Hasheer with a high position in the new government.

“And the money?” Aisha asked him. He smiled, waved his hands as if to say: immaterial.

Peyster seemed to agree. All he asked was, “Can he guarantee Al-Maahdi'll be there? At the turnover?”

She translated. Hasheer said he could, if the Americans made it clear they'd turn the ransom over only to him in person.

“You'd be in charge?”

“His other lieutenant doesn't come to the city. I can travel back and forth.”

Meaning, she thought, Hasheer had a safe conduct from Olowe past the roadblocks between the rebel-held hinterland and the GC-controlled areas along the main roads. Which also hinted their relationship wasn't as recent as presented.

Did that matter? Probably not. A lot of her work, dealing with informers for example, wasn't that appetizing. You held your nose and got on with it. She nudged her purse an inch closer to him with her toe.

Olowe perched on the corner of his desk. He rumbled, “Hasheer makes where you meet. Al-Maahdi comes. Then you take.”

“He's not to be harmed,” said Hasheer in Arabic. “The general has promised this. Only captured.”

Aisha gestured to the old woman, pointed to their cups. The old woman wagged her head at her own slackness, muttered apologies in Italian. As she tottered from one to the next on ancient high heels Aisha explained to Peyster, who listened with fingers locked. Till at last he rose, said, “Excuse us” to Olowe, and strolled out. The guard watched, but didn't move to follow.

They paced the length of the darkened corridor before Peyster murmured, “Now, you've met the guy? This Ghedi, the one we've been calling Al-Khasmi?”

“I interviewed him in the southern mountains when we were trying to get him to join the coalition. The reaction, well, it wasn't positive. Our informant's right. He spoke of the ulama, of sharia law.”

“Does he trust you? Al-Maahdi?”

He wanted to marry me, she thought of saying, but didn't. “I doubt he
trusts
me, but he knows me. With Ashaarans, that's a big step forward.”

“What do you think? This Hasheer. He the real deal?”

“I see no reason to doubt he can do what he says. Or has a reasonable chance, properly managed.”

“The JTF thinks he's holding the hostages north of the Tanagra. It'd be too costly to take him out where he is. But if Hasheer can lure him out into the open, we can intel-drive a direct action mission. Get the hostages back, zip-tie him, and park him somewhere he can't rally the Waleeli. Best case, Hasheer succeeds to the leadership, and we've got our own man in charge.” Peyster smoothed his hair and lowered his voice even more. “That'd be desirable for any number of reasons—including some leverage on Olowe.”

She looked at him, no longer wondering what agency he actually worked for. “And charge him with—what?”

They came to where strips of light lay against the ceiling, shining up from the floods in the courtyard, and stopped. Peyster blinked, as if she shouldn't need to be told. “Conspiracy to murder. For the Cosmo bombing. Or don't you think he was behind it?”