Mostly they were officers of the military wishing to watch their enemies die a horrifying death. Occasionally the family of the condemned would be forced to watch as their loved one was disemboweled, or tortured in any of the many other ways Muhadesh had mastered.
To refuse his ‘duty’ would have meant death. Muhadesh Algar, the iron fist who could break a man’s arm, or leg, or neck with ease, and teach others how, had at one moment been weak, choosing life for himself.
Routine became his escape. Regimentation was his savior. Up at five for a run with a group of commandos stationed nearby. Work from eight to six, one patient/victim per hour. He gave himself only that much time, which motivated him to become even more effective. It usually took much less. The longest — a twelve-year-old boy — had taken an hour and a half. After work came another physical outlet as he ran obstacle courses with his commando friends. Eight o’clock— home. At ten came sleep. The routine repeated itself day after day for seven years. The lapse in the routine came in the form of Commander Salaam al-Dir.
Muhadesh Algar, the methodical doctor of pain, had come to the attention of the commando leader, al-Dir. His daily training with the men and his obvious competence — something not considered as a prerequisite to command — brought him the offer of a new position, one that would remove him from his present duties. It did not matter to him if it was mopping barracks, but that was not to be his job. He was to be al-Dir’s assistant, a position that would allow him to use his intellect, though not his medical training. A little more than seven years after Muhadesh began his military career as a man of medicine, his conscience was eased, but not cleansed, with his appointment as executive officer of the 3rd Training Battalion.
Now he worked with men, not animalistic excuses for them. Those that came through the battalion left eventually to join other units, ones specializing in the application of their learned skills. Other countries might have higher-profile special-warfare units with highly specialized weaponry, but few could boast of a more dedicated group of warriors. It was amazing that al-Dir was able to turn out truly talented soldiers of above-average intelligence in a country where fundamentalist ideologies had clouded most realist thought. Al-Dir, like Muhadesh, loved his country. The land. The people. It was a uniquely serene place which he vowed never to abandon, despite the disparities in beliefs. Finding his own way to contribute without compromising what he believed had been supremely difficult. The 3rd was his way.
For Muhadesh it was at last a way to seek his own peace, but one that would last a short three months. Commander al-Dir disappeared with a small group of commandos on what was rumored to be a cross-border operation into Egypt. The true circumstances would probably never be known. The only certainty was that al-Dir was gone, forever, and Muhadesh was the new commander of the 3rd.
Soon after assuming command, Muhadesh found his unit being restructured on the orders of Colonel Qaddafi and given a new mission: to train revolutionary freedom fighters in the craft of terror. The skilled, capable warriors whom he had been proud to serve with were taken from the 3rd, some being sent to other, conventional units, and others off on missions that did not officially exist. It was a waste of fine, devoted patriots, and it left him with little to assist him in his new orders.
Again, though now indirectly, Muhadesh would be charged with causing pain and suffering. The skills of commandoing, which he picked up voluntarily, and the craft of torture, would be the curriculum as he taught others the finer points of savagery. He knew that to refuse or hesitate in carrying out the orders would mean death, and again his weakness forced acceptance of the mandate.
He began turning out skilled killers, and as the ranks of his remaining training officers shrank with their transfers, Muhadesh became more closely involved with the instruction of his pupils. A retreat into routine was an attempt to manage his life as he once had, but it was increasingly difficult to get up each day, knowing what knowledge he would be imparting to others.
It was during a weapons-buying excursion to Rome that a remedy to his guilt presented itself, quite by accident and with no forethought. Muhadesh loved the city, Italy’s great capital, especially because of its sounds. He could walk for hours — for days even — without tiring of the constant chatter of the people, whose animated discussions were like staged performances. And the birds. Everywhere they were. Some said they were messy, a nuisance, and good only for shooting, or as food for the cats, but he saw them as armies of aerial beauty and grace. He marveled at their ability to fly, and turn, and dive as a single entity, when there might be hundreds of birds in the flock. The diving flock he was gazing at that day drew his attention to a building: the United States embassy.
Everything came to him very quickly. The thought surprised him at first, then it calmed him. He wouldn’t be betraying his country, after all. Really, he didn’t know what he would be doing.
The simplicity of making contact amazed him. He just entered the embassy and asked to speak to an American intelligence officer, something the Marine guards had become accustomed to. Someone always wanted to sell something. Not Muhadesh. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Even the thought that he could be killed for his bold move didn’t occur to him immediately. In fact, it really wasn’t that dangerous, considering the ineffectiveness of Libyan counterintelligence.
An unimpressed CIA station chief, after seeing the military ID and hearing of his position in the Libyan army, gave Muhadesh a phone number. It was that of an electronic component supply company in Rome. He was told to call it on a certain day, at a specific time, and when asked, he was to place an order for some equipment. At the time he didn’t know it, but that simple order would cause his call to be transferred to the embassy.
At first he was tested. Only simple information was requested, more to verify his authority than for true intelligence needs. It was ‘safe’ stuff, which had a low probability of compromising him. Muhadesh’s position and viability were confirmed to the extent that it was possible to use him as a low-risk source, but to exploit his use the Agency had to take a chance. On a second visit some months later a simple code system was agreed upon, and a contract was signed for the delivery of a security system for the camp, complete with video surveillance equipment. The Agency front company in Rome provided and installed the system — with all of its secondary features.
The brilliance of the ongoing operation was in its simplicity, which came from Muhadesh and his insistence on order and routine for his students. At 9:00 each morning they would line up abreast, facing east, their feet planted square in yellow-painted footprints pointing at the camp’s small armory. Atop the building one of the surveillance cameras would do its repetitive 120-degree sweep of the assembly area, displaying the image in the security center. There a single guard monitored it on one of the eight wall-mounted video monitors. On the twelfth day of each month at precisely 9:05 A.M. Captain Muhadesh Algar would address his students as they stood at attention. At the same instant a one minute portion of the image would be recorded on a special device in the captain’s office, where a single, selectable monitor was installed. The sixty seconds were then condensed into a short-burst signal and transmitted the same evening at 10:00 via a low-power signal from an antenna hidden within a camera perch. A U.S. submarine in the Gulf of Sidra, waiting just below the surface with only its ESM mast breaking the water, would receive the signal. From there it was bounced twenty-two thousand miles up to a satellite and back down to the NPIC at Fort Belvoir. The pictures were enhanced and used to identify terrorists before they became dangerous. It wouldn’t stop the terror movement, but it would help in the battle. Later a fax machine was installed in his office, allowing direct, same-day contact with his case officer via the bogus company, and relieving reliance on the UV ink messages on invoices and reliability assessments sent to Rome.