“You know what?”
“Let’s get a cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I.”
Upstairs, Johansen strode quickly from the elevator, through the lobby and outside. Massina took his time catching up.
Johansen knew bringing the lawyer was a mistake, but his boss had insisted on it. He needed a witness when the shit hit the fan.
Which eventually it always did these days, no matter how much good you tried to do or how right you were to do it.
“I didn’t mean to blindside you,” he told Massina. “The deputy director—”
“Why are you covering your ass?” demanded Massina. “Am I supposed to take the hit if things go bad?”
“You don’t understand the atmosphere in Washington these days, Louis. And this administration — let’s just say they don’t have our backs. Happy to take credit, though.”
“And what happens to me?”
“Nothing. Nothing. You did your civic duty, and you have a witness from the FBI and the CIA — two witnesses — to prove it.”
“They’re going to accuse me of breaking the law?”
“Did you?”
“I could give a shit.”
“Then that’s your answer. And, uh, given the FBI’s reaction, I’d say you must not have.” Johansen shifted uncomfortably. He wouldn’t hang Massina out to dry, but he couldn’t be sure no one else would either. Still, this had to be done. “Look, we’re going to get this guy,” he said, changing the subject.
“But if things don’t work out, it’s not going to be a CIA operation.”
“It’s never a CIA operation,” said Johansen.
Johansen had approached Massina because he wanted Smart Metal expertise and tech, but the company’s involvement would also provide a very convenient cover if things went south.
Hey, we didn’t do it. It was a private company who funded the thing. Apparently there’s no law against that — Congress hadn’t thought of making it illegal for upstanding citizens to take revenge on bastard scumbags who blew up their city.
At least not yet.
“Your information parallels ours,” added Johansen. “Obviously I couldn’t say it inside.”
“So I wasted my time.”
“No. Not at all. It’s always good to have independent validation. And when we take a look, you may have more details. To be honest, I think I trust you more than our people anyway.”
Johansen looked over to the corner. The others were standing there, waiting. He took out a cigarette — plausible deniability was important. Nobody could lie, yet nobody could tell the exact truth.
I saw him with a cigarette. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying.
Not lies, certainly. But not the entire truth.
“You promised two volunteers to watch the equipment,” Johansen told Massina. “I need them in Arizona next week. This thing is moving along.”
“You’ll have them.”
“Who?”
“I’m still deciding.”
Johansen considered asking for Chelsea Goodman — she had done amazing work in the Ukraine, and he knew she wouldn’t wilt under pressure, something in his mind that techies tended to do — but he decided not to ask.
“They have to be volunteers, your people,” Johansen reminded him. “Even though they’ll be behind the lines. Volunteers.”
“That part won’t be a problem,” said Massina.
29
Worn by the fatigue of his travels, Ghadab fell back to sleep after morning prayers and would have missed the noon call had he not felt the presence of someone waking him. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see a young, slender woman kneeling next to his bed.
“Honored sir,” she said in Iraqi-flavored Arabic, “time to waken.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Shadaa.” She bowed her head.
Ghadab raised his head, looking around. “You’re here alone?”
“I am yours.”
Puzzled, he ordered her out of the room. When she was gone, he rose and prayed, then changed the clothes he’d fallen asleep in for a fresh pair of fatigues. He spent some time contemplating the words of the Prophet most honored. He thought of his fate, and how he would fulfill it, and permitted himself a small bit of vanity, considering how deserving he was of the praises the African had given him on his arrival. They were meaningful, for the African was older than he was, old enough to be an uncle if not his father.
“You are displeased with me?” asked Shadaa when he emerged from the room.
Her hands trembled. She stood stiffly at attention, as if a soldier, in the middle of the hall.
“I’m not pleased or displeased,” Ghadab told her. “Who are you?”
“Shadaa. Yours.”
“I have work,” he said.
She bowed her head. He went downstairs, looking over his shoulder when he reached the landing to make sure she wasn’t following.
She wasn’t. She stood in the same place, ramrod straight.
Before the city had been liberated, the first-floor restaurant served a mixture of Western food — Italian and French, along with a little Greek. Although the bar had been removed and the liquor destroyed, there were still traces of this influence; steak and pasta remained on the menu, though the first was unavailable and the waiter frankly recommended against the latter. Only he remained from the old regime; the cook was the owner’s brother-in-law, which was not a recommendation.
“We have lamb prepared with mint,” suggested the waiter, “and rice with apricots. The meat is fresh.”
“That would be fine,” said Ghadab.
“As you desire. Water? Sparkling?”
Another Western touch, thought Ghadab. “Plain water.”
The waiter bowed, then sped off to the kitchen.
Ghadab was halfway through his meal when the African arrived. He had two young men with him, soldiers.
“I see you are eating,” said the African. “I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Sit with me,” said Ghadab. “We’ll have lunch.”
“Very generous, brother. But we have already eaten. These are my aides, Amin and Horace.”
Amin was a common name, but Horace begged explanation.
“I was born in America,” said the young man, whose Arabic sounded Egyptian. “My parents were convinced that they should fit in. They were apostates, worse than infidels.”
“And then they returned home,” said the African. “They returned to the faith.”
“They have no understanding of it,” said Horace bitterly. “They practice the motions, but do not know the meaning. Empty bottles that should be filled with pure water.”
“Like yourself when you arrived,” said the African with some fondness.
“Who is the girl?” Ghadab asked. He gestured toward the second floor.
“Shadaa,” said the African. “Yours to do with as you wish. The council has made it clear that all fighters’ needs are to be answered.”
Ghadab didn’t respond.
The African asked if she was not pleasing to him. “We can find another,” he added, “or if you prefer—”
“She’ll do,” answered Ghadab. “I wanted only an explanation.”
“The council is ready for you. At your convenience.”
“Let’s go now.”
The council was one of several groups that steered the Caliphate’s affairs. The Caliph himself was selected by the highest council, known informally as the majlis al-shura or Shura Council, the highest advisers of the people, learned religious leaders who had a deep understanding of the prophecies. The Caliph — to the West, Ibrahim Awad Ibrahim al-Badri; to his followers, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi — in turn appointed various aides to assist in governing and in the greater struggle. As an overseas soldier, Ghadab answered directly to a subsection of the War Council that ruled overseas jihad.