That line got smiles from most of the men present, but some of them were merely polite. The Arab man did not smile at all.
“Anyway, I’m going to introduce you all to your new boss.”
I held up a hand. “Before you do that, did you follow my criteria for choosing them?”
With a look of annoyance, Douglas said, “Yes, sir. They're all my employees. They all know what the mission is. They’re all volunteers. And, last but not least, not one is currently a terrorist.”
That drew laughs from several men. The room was loosening up.
I said, “Well, Colonel Douglas, let's continue with the introductions.”
Douglas started from the left side of the room, gesturing to a well-built man with close-cropped brown hair and stubble strewn across his face. "This is Volodya Ivanov, ex Spetsnaz. Tell your new boss about yourself, Volodya."
The Russian gave a shrug. When he spoke, he had a midwestern American accent, startling everyone in the room except Douglas. "I was born in Chelyabinsk thirty-five years ago, liked to fight in my youth, and found my calling killing people for Russia. I met old Douglas here seven years ago on, uh, a business trip."
Douglas laughed. The Russian maintained a straight face. "Mr. Douglas had been brought in by the Ukrainians to consult on defending a natural gas import terminal they had built on the Black Sea. President Putin didn't want the Ukrainians importing American natural gas because it would undermine Russia's leverage over western Europe. So, in went me and my team."
I asked, "You were supposed to blow the place up?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
Douglas couldn't resist finishing the story. "My company had been brought in as a security consultant to the Ukrainian facility. I got a tip from a friend in Russia that Volodya and his lads were coming, so I set a trap. While they were wiring their bomb, a dozen floodlights went on and the Ukrainians told the Spetsnaz to put their hands up. And you know what this cheeky bastard shouted back in that perfect American accent of his?”
Volodya grinned, and said, “'Didn't anyone tell you the bomb inspector was coming by tonight?'"
Douglas bellowed laughter. "After that, I knew he was perfect for my organization. Decided to hire him on the spot, I did."
"And how did you end up with an American accent?" I inquired.
"Well, we focus on different parts of the world in Spetsnaz, and I was in the American section."
"I see. Did you ever operate in America?"
"Once or twice."
That sounded problematic. “Once or twice?”
“Well, one of the missions was evacuating a spy. Went off like clockwork, no complications. The other mission, well… I assassinated an American who was leaking information to Wikileaks.”
An awkward silence ensued. I said, “Please, elaborate.”
“This was right before an important summit between Russia and America. The higher ups didn't want some damaging diplomatic cables to get out and turn public opinion against us. The Americans didn't seem to have any clue who the leaker was, but we had a mole in Wikileaks who told us. So, they sent me to take care of the leaker.”
“How did you do it?”
Volodya shuffled uncomfortably. “With a, uh, knife. Made it look like a mugging gone wrong.”
“I see.” I decided that didn't quite disqualify the Russian from service in my group. “Why did you agree to come work for me on this mission?”
Volodya answered, “Douglas is going, so I know it’ll be fun. And lucrative.” Wiping the smile off his face, he said more seriously, “I trust Colonel Douglas. If he thinks this war is worth fighting, then I will help him win it.”
I nodded. That explanation was good enough for me. Catching my signal to move on, Douglas pointed to the next man, who was sitting in an armchair. He was actually wearing a suit and tie, making him the only man in the room who looked like he was going to a job interview. His hair was shoulder-length and light brown, making him by far the most effeminate-looking of our bunch.
“This is Hans Dietrich. He might look like an asshole and it might be because he is one.” I laughed, but no one else did.
Hans didn’t protest that assessment. Instead, he muttered with a noticeable German accent, “Working for Colonel Douglas can turn a man into an asshole.”
This time, Douglas didn’t seem to be joking. “Hans was an asshole when I met him, otherwise I wouldn’t have hired him. When I found him four years ago, he was a Bundeswehr GSG-9 terrorism expert working with the UN peacekeeping unit in Sierra Leone. The UN was about to put him up on charges for suggesting that the only way to end the violence there was to burn the fall harvest in rebel territory and starve the bastards out.”
I asked, “How did you come to that conclusion?”
The German helpfully explained, “The warlords in Sierra Leone controlled the countryside by running all food production activities. They directed the farming, organized the harvest, set prices, and sold the goods themselves on the market. If the UN force cut off the food supply, the people under the warlords would begin to starve. They would, in turn, pressure the warlords to figure out a way to protect their crops. The warlods would need to organize massive, direct attacks on the peacekeeping forces. What had up until that point been a dirty guerilla war would turn into a few conventional battles, with the UN troops dug into entrenched strategic locations around the harvest sites. A pitched battle out in the open — that was the only kind of battle the peacekeeping forces could win.”
Douglas winced a little, thinking I’d object to that kind of thinking. “The point is, Hans knows how to think asymmetrically. He’s a chess player with a rifle.”
I inquired, “And why are you here?”
Hans sniffed. “It’s an interesting job. How often do I have a full-out war as a canvas for my art?”
That prompted more than a few raised eyebrows around the room. Douglas opened his mouth to say something, but then held back. He changed his mind and simply said, “Hans knows how bastards think. He's a planner.”
I decided to let the matter lie. “Continue, Colonel Douglas.”
Walking over to the table, Douglas pointed at a swarthy man with curly hair and a short beard sitting across from Hans. “Mohammed Taleb. Another terrorism expert.”
“I’m detecting a trend.”
Douglas folded his arms. “They know how to fight a guerilla war.”
Volodya’s eyes narrowed as he examined Taleb more closely. “You and I have met before, haven’t we?”
Taleb answered, “I went to Moscow for training on weapons and spycraft. You were my teacher, Sergeant Ivanov.”
Volodya expounded, “Not lieutenant anymore. Mohammed’s Fatah, a Palestinian. I was teaching him stuff to use against the Israelis.” The last words came out apologetically. “Russia was fond of money at that point, not Israel.”
Mohammed rolled his eyes at that. “The Jews didn’t end up being the biggest enemy of the Palestinian people. The Iranians and Hamas proved to be a much bigger problem during the Iran-Israel War. Iran handed their Hamas boyfriends chemical weapons to use against Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. That, of course, would have killed mostly poor Arabs who don’t have the fancy gas masks that the Jews have. So, I helped Colonel Douglas stop Hamas.”
I asked, “Do you still want to destroy Israel?”
Shrugging, Mohammed said, “I don’t care anymore.”
Douglas added, “His family won’t speak to him. He collaborated with me, and I was working with Israel. Even Fatah wouldn’t accept him after that.”
I could see anger in Mohammed’s eyes as he replied, “To hell with Fatah.”