A Cold Day In Mosul (17 page)

"Eventually. But first there's a more important mission I want to complete. The operation I started when I came to Mosul."

"And what operation is that?" Doug said.

She finally glanced from the laptop and smiled wanly. "Hunting down and terminating the acting caliph of the Islamic State."

seventeen

V
ictor sat on a cushion in the front parlor, with his two legs extended in front of him on the carpeted floor.

The Islamic State had granted him the furnished home of some Christian family. It was a surprisingly cozy place, with all the amenities and appliances one would come to expect in a modern house, including toilets, dishwashers, fridge, and stove, though of course none of the appliances worked without functioning utilities. The venetian blinds, carpeted floors, and brightly colored wallpaper gave the place a more European feel than anything else, though the paucity of chairs, at least in the current room, betrayed the Middle Eastern nature of the house.

The home didn't have a fireplace, unfortunately, so it was a tad cold, though the temperature was nothing compared to the brutal Russian winters of course. He had become accustomed to the hot clime of the Gulf, and places like Mosul, so far north, didn't sit all that well with him in the winter months. He would have much preferred to be back in Jordan. But where was money to be made...

The walls of the sitting room around him were covered in nagash: an arabesque mural of bright geometric designs that mimicked the rug pattern underneath him. The outline of a Christian cross disturbed the fresco of the wall opposite him. The offending religious artifact had been removed, but the sun shining through the opposite window had tanned the paint around it over the years, leaving behind that silhouette. He had placed the Quran on the floor below it, beside his prayer mat.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He was raised an Orthodox Christian, of course, and still considered himself a member of that religion, though he knew the Quran well enough to pass for a devotee of Islam. It was necessary, when dealing with these types. He had adopted many of their customs and habits, too, such as their inclination to sit on cushions when receiving guests in their homes.

He had also inherited some of their vices. He was smoking a hookah containing a molasses-soaked shisha, and in between inhales on the mouthpiece, he sipped Arak, an anise-flavored liqueur. Yes, smoking and drinking were illegal under the Caliphate, but he was a man of power, and men of power did not have to obey the rules. That was the way it had been from the dawn of time, and the way it would continue to be while the upright apes collectively known as humanity dominated the planet.

An olive-skinned Yazidi woman sat on her knees in one corner of the room, ready to do his bidding. A thin veil covered the lower half of her face, but she was otherwise naked from the neck down. Like his vices, she was a symbol of his power, and he flaunted her thusly.

He heard the muted exchange of Russian outside, and then the door to the sitting room opened. Dmitri stood in the entrance. Late, as usual.

Victor bade him recline on a nearby cushion.

"Drink?" Victor asked.

Dmitri shook his head. "
Nyet
. What do you want?"

"Straight to business, as always." Victor tried a smile. It felt strained. In truth he was glad to skip the banter. He didn't think he could handle any pleasantries with Dmitri right then. He was unbalanced enough as it was by the escape.

He took a long pull on the hookah mouthpiece and spoke. "Our Islamic State counterparts have tasked us with the termination of the Widow and her operatives. Find them. Kill them."

"It should not be difficult, comrade," Dmitri said. "I have many eyes and ears on the streets. And I've set my Bears loose. They are roving from door to door, moving outward from the neighborhood of the escape, seeking witnesses. If anyone can find them, it is they."

"Good," Victor said.

He wondered again how much he could trust the man. Victor wanted to leave the country and sell the intel while it still had some value, but he feared Dmitri would usurp his little operation while he was gone. There was a saying in his homeland:

A soldier who doesn't dream of becoming a general is a bad one.

Already the man was becoming too full of himself. Victor had seen the signs before in others. The resentment in the eyes. The sidelong, questioning glances. The fleeting looks of contempt.

Yes, if Victor left at the precise moment, it would likely prove very difficult to return. He would simply have to bide his time until the conditions became more favorable.

He finished his glass of Arak and beckoned the naked Yazidi slave to attend him. She came forward, bowing. He grinned as her breasts wobbled.

"How did I ever manage without you my little babushka?" he asked her.

The slave didn't answer, of course. Didn't even meet his eye. She took the empty glass and left the room soundlessly. He stared at her receding buttocks, watching them alternately rise and fall with every step. He loved how supple she was, not just in body but spirit. So tamed. So broken. If only everyone could be like her.

Dmitri cleared his throat, startling Victor slightly. He cursed inwardly. He couldn't allow Dmitri to see any signs of weakness. When she returned, he would have to berate her in front of him, maybe beat her.

He looked at Dmitri and forced himself to smile. The man didn't return the expression. Victor decided right then that as soon as the Widow was terminated, he would see that Dmitri followed in her footsteps. The ex-GRU officer was simply too dangerous.

"I don't need to tell you that these operatives cannot be allowed to escape," Victor said, hardening his voice. The slave returned, carrying a fresh glass of Arak. Victor immediately swatted it aside. The glass shattered as it struck the floor; the spilled liqueur spread like a pool of blood. "Foolish woman, get me another and clean this up!"

She scurried from the room with her head down.

"What was I saying?" Victor asked, taking a long, casual drag from the hookah mouthpiece.

"I cannot allow the American operatives to escape," Dmitri answered.

"
Da
. That is exactly right. We can't have them devaluing the intel we've collected."

"The intel
I've
collect, you mean," Dmitri said.

Victor decided to pretend the man hadn't spoken. "If word gets out that they've escaped, the price will drop by half if we're lucky. Tenfold if we're not. Do not fail me."

The slave returned with a fresh glass of Arak, but before Victor could take it, Dmitri sat up and snatched the liqueur from her hands. He downed the Arak in one shot.

Victor felt his eyes bulge in his head at that blatant show of disrespect. Taking
his
glass, from
his
slave, and drinking
his
Arak? He felt like he was going to burst from the outrage.

Dmitri turned the empty glass upside-down and smashed it into the floor. The shards spread in a circular pattern. "Never fear, comrade, I will bring you their heads."

Grinning viciously, Dmitri arose and made his way to the door.

You will
, Victor thought, staring at his back.
And then I will have yours.

eighteen

E
than and the others had gathered around Sam beneath the date palms in the courtyard. The laptop was open in front of her, and the screen faced the group.

"Up until early this year we ignored the Al Ba'aj district in western Iraq," Sam said. "A Sunni tribal area, it's a wide, mostly barren tract of land, starting one hundred and fifty kilometers to the southwest of Mosul. The tribes there have always operated outside of government rule, even during Saddam's reign. We flew surveillance drones over it now and again, but for the most part we left the region alone. There just wasn't anything of interest. That is, until a random drone flight detected a convoy traveling at night between two villages. We started flying more Predators over the region, and we equipped them with hellfires.

"About two months into the flyovers, several males were spotted loading into cars after dark outside a tiny village close to the Syrian border. As the three-car convoy left the village, the Predator was given the go ahead to release its payload. The strike was successful, and we thought nothing of it until the next day, when the sudden upswing in radio and network chatter told us we'd hit someone important. You'll never guess who: none other than Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi, caliph of Islamic State. The airstrike had seriously wounded him, apparently. While we have no idea where he's holed up, he's out of the picture for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. The Shura council has already appointed another man to serve as acting leader."

She pressed a key on the laptop. A surveillance photo came up, revealing a rather ordinary-looking individual. He carried a stack of books and binders in one arm, and was walking away from what appeared to be a school. He had a gray beard, though his mustache was still black; he wore a blazer, slacks, and white T-shirt.

"This is the earliest known picture of Haji Iman, otherwise known as Abu Alaa Afri," she said. "Former physics teacher from Tal Afar." A city northwest of Mosul. "Now acting caliph of the Islamic State."

"A physics teacher?" William said in disbelief. "How does one go from theorizing about the forces of nature to peddling terror?"

"You were embedded with the jihadists. You know how their minds work. It begins as a grand adventure, going off to war for your religion. You think you're doing the right thing, because you're surrounded by other like-minded individuals similarly blinded by zeal. Eventually, if you survive long enough, that zeal becomes something else: hatred for anyone who doesn't believe what you do.

"Afri wasn't too different. Under the auspices of a jihadi scholar, it is believed he traveled to Afghanistan in 1998 to join Bin Laden. He rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a senior member of Al Qaeda in 2004.

"As you may or may not know, the key to power in any radical sect is how good your rhetoric is. And Afri was, and is, very good at it. He's published dozens of religious articles on sharia law and the crimes of the West, and has a large following among the mujahadeen. In any case, in 2013 he was appointed the high-ranking position of province coordinator, which is essentially the link between the Caliphate's upper echelon and its lower ranks, so he knows the inner workings of the organization very well. In 2014 he was promoted to deputy, and that led him to where he is today."

She pressed another key on the laptop, replacing the photo with a map. "We believe he is somewhere here, in the Al Hadar district of Nineveh province."

On the screen a large swath of land lit up in the southwest. It bordered the Al Ba'aj district where Al Baghdadi had been hit.

"That's a lot of territory for a man to hide in," Ethan said.

"It is," Sam agreed. "Which is why I've been working on a way to narrow down his location." She touched something and a new picture appeared of a nondescript man dressed in winter clothing. He had a mustache, and otherwise looked very much the typical Iraqi. "This is Afri's main courier. He's been with him ever since he became provincial coordinator. We follow the courier, we find Afri."

"So I'm guessing we don't know where the courier is either, do we?" Ethan said.

"Not his exact address, no," Sam admitted. "But we do know he makes his home in Mosul."

"How do you plan on drawing out this courier?" Doug said.

"We capture the regional commander and emir of Mosul, Al Taaraz Abd Al Wajid, who uses him to communicate with Afri."

A dated file photo appeared on the display. A plump, mustached man dressed in combat fatigues climbed the steps of some government building. He looked like a younger version of Saddam Hussein.

"Why do I have the feeling that we don't know the location of this Al Taaraz, either?" William said.

Sam sighed. "His whereabouts are another intelligence blank, I'm afraid."

William smiled ironically. "Gotta love the brutal honesty. We don't know where the Islamic State leader is. We don't where the courier who can lead him to us is. And we don't know where the man who can summon the courier is. I'm sensing an intelligence vicious circle here. The whole snake eating its own tale kind of thing."

Sam returned his sardonic grin. "See, this is why I hired you. You're a man who's not afraid to speak his mind, even if his words contribute nothing to the overall discussion."

William gave her a mock salute. "Just doing my part in the global war on terror, ma'am."

She touched the laptop and a new photo appeared; a man in a white robe and black scarf, with a long dark beard worn in the mustache-less style of the devout. He seemed to be addressing an audience of some kind.

"Before I was captured," Sam continued. "I was trying to arrange a meeting with an influential Sunni scholar named Kareef Al Bayati, local to Mosul. If anyone can draw Al Taaraz out, it's him. But before I could meet Kareef, the liaison I hired betrayed me."

"You're sure it wasn't Kareef himself who betrayed you?" Ethan asked.

"Yes," Sam said. "He didn't know my location. And as for my liaison, I gave him a trial assignment first. He never completed it, instead leading the jihadis to my door."

"So how do you know this Kareef?" Ethan asked.

"An asset of mine told me his scholar friend, who happened to be Kareef, had hinted at leaving the country, and gave me his email. We traded a few encrypted messages. In exchange for safe passage to Paris and French citizenship, he was willing to help us. I sent him another message earlier today, trying to set a date and time, but he hasn't answered yet."

"Can we actually promise him French citizenship?" William said.

"The Secretary has already worked out a deal with his French counterpart. We just need to meet Kareef in person to finalize the details of his involvement. Basically we have to convince him to set a trap for emir Al Taaraz."