“I’m thinking that I can help you, and you, in turn, can help me.”
“So this isn’t about marriage?”
“I thought you were through. Do you need a minute?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“So, as I was saying, you’ve seen my byline before in the papers. I do human interest articles, some reviews of the arts, and so forth.”
Even he didn’t consider his journalistic dalliances so far anything noteworthy, which brought him to this point. He saw the possibility to combine his drive for fame with her need to completely and utterly destroy her dead ex-husband. He understood her myopic desire to cruelly and utterly defame Colonel Garrett and would play into her need.
“Okay, go on,” she said.
“I think there’s a good story with Amanda, and her father being killed. This could be huge, and it could be mutually beneficial.”
He was barely able to finish his sentence. He held up his hands as she put down her wine glass and got into her mental three-point stance for counter-attack.
“Just hear me out, okay?”
“This better be good.”
“It is, trust me.”
Del Dangurs told her his plan. She listened intently… and he could tell she liked it. Something was missing, though. Always quick on her feet, he watched her mind shift gears and she saw the unspoken angle.
He smiled as she said, “Okay, but now you have to listen to my plan.”
And he did.
Later that evening, as they were lying in his bed, she leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. “If you do this, I will really make it worth your while.”
Del Dangurs gave her a wicked grin.
“I’ll make it so he wouldn’t even want to be alive.”
CHAPTER 18
Mullah Rahman considered his good fortune. They had survived not one, but two, significant fights with a heavily armed American special operations team while inflicting the heaviest casualties on the first group since Ahmad Shah had downed the American MH-47 in Kunar several years ago killing a total of 19 Americans. In the initial fight, the Balkan fighters had died, but that was their misfortune. This time, they had merely escaped with their prisoner and the mysterious flash drive. It bothered him that the Americans had known to attack the specific cave complex he was using at the time. His instinct, though, told him that the Americans had simply gotten lucky. Maybe the campfire in the cave opening had been too bold, but he wanted that for the money shot on the video.
Killing Americans was the sweet spot when it came to funding. Having video of that killing, as Shah had taken, was the bull’s-eye of the sweet spot. And now having video of his prisoner was even better. He had spliced together his own shoot down of the MH-47 and Colonel Garrett’s “confession.” Getting that video to the Al Qaeda diasporas would bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions.
The truth was that Rahman was tired of fighting. Just as the Americans were growing weary of the war, so were the Arabs. The initial blows from the 9-11 attacks had led to euphoria in the Muslim world. David had struck Goliath solidly. After 10 years of combat, though, the sensation had numbed. The fact was that combat was simply hard work. Fighting the Americans was even harder.
Sure, Rahman could continue to train a bunch of wayward, homeless Pakistanis plucked from refugee camps and processed through the Madrassas to attack the Americans, but he often thought about life beyond the Northwest Frontier Province.
He held in his hand the video that would provide him that passage. Perhaps he would find a plush pad in Dubai or Oman or Bahrain. He could blend into the ebb and flow of life there, changing his identity, get some plastic surgery, and rest, perhaps even return to the battlefield when he felt the time was right. But, really, who was he kidding?
He did the calculations. Say they gave him a million for this video. He would take a third of that and fund the next series of operations while setting in place the logistics for his escape. He had to stay off the American intelligence radar while navigating who he could still trust in the Pakistani Intelligence Service (ISI). Maybe he would just jump in a truck headed to Karachi.
But that was a long way both geographically and figuratively from Chitral, Pakistan, one of the most protected zones in the country. The Pakistan Army knew better than to venture into the tight valleys there; the security rings were too formidable, thanks to Rahman.
As the operations officer of Al Qaeda in Pakistan and Afghanistan he was the equivalent of an American three or four star general. But here he was living hand to mouth, in squalor mostly, on the fringes of humanity, fighting the good, righteous fight, but when, he wondered, did Allah provide that reprieve? He knew it was blasphemous to question Allah, but they all did, even Zawahiri, who was a two-faced prick in Rahman’s mind. The Egyptian hid behind the smoked glass of SUVs and put others in danger by using doubles. No man was indispensable.
He held the DVD in his hand, trying to understand how such a weightless item could carry so much import. But he knew it was all about information. And the information contained on this piece of plastic would be shocking. The words spoken would be devastating to the Americans and their cause.
And it would be wildly enriching to Mullah Rahman, one of the new breed of opportunistic Al Qaeda/Taliban leaders. Fight some, live some.
Just don’t get soft.
And watch your back, Rahman thought.
He stuffed the disk in the padded envelope and called the two couriers into the adobe hut. One was tall and dark, Mansur, a Pakistani from Karachi who knew the routes the best. The other was smaller and wore thin spectacles, Kamil. Rahman thought of him as a bookworm, but both men had proven reliable couriers.
“To Dubai. Base headquarters. The message is that we need two million to keep the momentum.”
The tall one nodded and grasped the envelope.
“We will report back in a few days.”
Rahman continued to hold onto the envelope and said, “They die if you don’t, you know. But I’m giving you a week because of the amount of money we are asking for.”
Both men nodded.
Their families lived a good life in the town of Chitral, realizing they were part prisoner and part teammate. If the men failed, their wives and children would be slaughtered. Rahman had already been through three couriers who had botched runs. All had been found and killed after, of course, they had been brought back to “identify” the remains of their families.
“Understood. We have not failed you.”
And they had not, yet. Two million was the highest amount Rahman had asked for to date and he was curious what would come back.
The Diaspora would want to show the video on world wide television and they would generate revenue from selling it to major cable networks. So he thought two million might be feasible.
He watched the couriers leave and his mind drifted to the activity in the room next to him in the small adobe hut.
Before going to take care of that business, planning what to do with the spoils of the last attack, Rahman’s mind drifted and he thought, Maybe Morocco. Good beaches. Lots of Muslims.
He ran his hand through his beard and moved to the next room.
Rahman sat at his computer and saw that Asad Mohammed, his information technology specialist, had left him a note, indicating that he had cracked a small portion of the thumb drive, but was still frustrated that the encryption was so complex.