And it struck me that Bian was right about one thing-we could blow the lid off this war-and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed.
First Sergeant Jackson closed his eyes. Field soldiers have the stamina of babies, and within thirty seconds he was comatose and snoring loudly. Time for business. I opened my legal briefcase, withdrew a thick sheath of papers, took a moment to clear my mind, and dug in.
I recalled the old Army saying-a plan lasts until the second it's implemented. I have found this to be generally true, but I think it's important to have one, to have a baseline, and if you've really done your homework, workable options for when the poop flies. What we had in this case was seat-of-your-pants bullshit.
The basic idea-what the Army calls a POW snatch; POW standing for prisoner of war, and snatch implying the goombah in question might not be a willing participant. Such operations are always risky, as bad guys invariably hang around their own neighborhoods, usually in the company of other bad guys, and you have to be quick or you end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it's bad luck to dwell on that-and hard not to.
In the interest of airtight secrecy, rather than rely on career Agency types or even uniformed military who might become nosy about Sean Drummond and Mr. Ali bin Pacha, the heavy-lifting stage of this mission was going to be done by private contractors employed by Phyllis.
These were people who had done work for the Agency before, and they passed the entrance exam; they were still alive to do another job. They are not mercenaries, mind you, and they are sure to point that out to you; they are patriotic Americans, mostly former Army and Navy Special Forces types who are still serving their country, and it just happens to be for more money.
And why not? They get one to two hundred grand a year, less Mickey Mouse, bosses they can talk back to, and when they're tired of it, they cash out and walk. This might be a workable option for Drummond's second career.
On the brighter side, they are professionals, usually handpicked, highly experienced, and they don't get jobs unless they produce bang for the buck.
Oh, yes-that unsettling matter of my trust issues with my boss. I wasn't completely paranoid, yet I was aware of another big advantage of private contractors. They aren't accountable to anybody except the name on the paycheck, no questions asked. Not that I expected a bullet in the back of my head. It was a factor to bear in mind, though.
Of course, Phyllis would never do that to me. We were friends. Right?
Anyway, before I departed I was given the name of my contact, Eric Finder-a hopeful surname for this job-the location for our meeting, and even passwords we would exchange to confirm our bona fides. How cool is that?
Inside my legal case were street maps and satellite photos of Falluja-where Ali bin Pacha was in residence-a few thick binders filled with information about that city, and various threat assessments produced by in-country CIA types regarding a man named Ahmad Fadil Nazzal al-Khalayleh, who was a Jordanian by birth, nom de guerre al-Zarqawi, and some of his known associates-Mr. Ali bin Pacha's name, incidentally, was nowhere on that list.
The general thrust was this: Mr. al-Zarqawi ran a rough outfit. The exact size of his organization was unknown, and ditto for its makeup and exact membership. It was presumed to include a small, die-hard, highly trusted cadre, a few hundred warriors and kamikazes, and probably a few thousand sympathizers who provided safe houses, transportation, odd jobs, logistics, intelligence gathering, and whatever.
These people were a mixture of Iraqis and foreign talent, and it was notable that the local Sunni populace were largely on his side, not ours. In fact, Zarqawi was regarded locally as a Robin Hood type, despite taking money from the rich and giving only death to the poor. Lately, however, killing Americans was becoming too risky and difficult, so he had shifted his sights to murdering Iraqis, often indiscriminately, which was wearing thin with some locals.
Here's what was known: The structure of his organization was basically cellular and compartmentalized; small groups, connected vertically, not laterally, so no hands knew what the others were doing. A number of these cells had been captured or infiltrated; yet, to date, nobody had fingered the man himself, which was interesting.
A twenty-five-million-buck warrant was on Zarqawi's head; this in a part of the world where two grand was enough to sell your adorable, beloved daughter to a stinky camel farmer. This suggested that al-Zarqawi was either very good, very feared, very lucky, or very ruthless, none of which are mutually exclusive.
Nothing that I read here was news, of course. As with the rest of the conscious American public, I knew about Mr. al-Zarqawi and about his more flamboyant idiosyncrasies. He liked seeing his masked face on the tube, and he knew how to sweep Nielson ratings, as our broadcaster friends say. His particular form of attention-seeking behavior was making home videos of himself beheading helpless captives, which tells you he has a few big issues with Western civilization. Also, if Sean Drummond fell into his hands, I might be in for a very dramatic, one-act theater career.
Anyway, after two hours of reading and studying, I remembered I had slept only three hours the previous night. I stretched, put my papers away, locked my briefcase, and within seconds was sound asleep.
I would like to say I rested fitfully and experienced pleasant dreams, but when I awoke, here's the dream I remembered: I was kneeling on a small dark mat, three tall figures stood behind me, black masks covered their heads, coarse tape covered my mouth, a hand was tugging my head backward, and I could see a large, crisp blade hovering in front of my throat, moving closer… closer… and…
CHAPTER NINETEEN
What jarred me awake were the wheels of the big 747 bouncing and skidding on hard tarmac. I opened my eyes, looked out the window, and got my first clue of something gone wrong-the airport. It shouldn't be, yet this airport looked familiar, and I knew I had been here before. The cobwebs cleared, and I knew where I was: Kuwait.
The second tip-off was the pilot announcing in that smooth, everything's-just-fucking-fine tone, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying United. For your safety, we were diverted from Baghdad Airport, which is currently experiencing a serious threat from surface-to-air missiles. I apologize for any inconvenience. When you deplane, you'll be met by representatives from the armed forces who will connect you with ground convoys heading north."
This isn't the kind of announcement you hear on domestic routes. But this guy was so slick, for a moment I thought I was on a normal flight and we were about to be promised free food vouchers to mollify our discontentment, or whatever.
His tone then turned funereal, and he added, "It has been our distinct honor to have you on board and… and… and from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of the entire crew… God bless you all."
You could almost hear a collective gulp from his passengers. A simple good luck would've been sufficient, thank you.
Anyway, he parked his big plane in the middle of a large empty ramp, off to the right of the runway where there were no other aircraft, and neither was there a terminal. The night was pitch-dark, yet the airport was well lit, and I could observe trucks moving around, all of them American military vehicles.
I checked my watch, which I had already preset to local time- 4:00 a.m. An elevated stairway was rolled up, and we deplaned and waited in a large gaggle on the tarmac while our duffel bags and personal gear were unloaded down a long rolling ramp and arranged in a long line for pickup.