Gauntlet (6 page)

On the day before the fight, as the shadows were lengthening, Yousseff went to the Four Cedars. He walked around the area once, slowly. He kicked the turf and mentally measured distances. He knew that he needed an edge, any possible advantage. He measured the area again and again, looking for an equalizer. He climbed up one of the trees and looked down on the arena, then went down and looked skyward at the tree branches. At midnight he was still there, walking, measuring, and thinking. He was going to have only one chance. One shot. One move. He would have to focus all his power and concentration on that one move, and make it count. It would be a gamble, but there was only one way forward. If he miscalculated, it would be over, and he would find himself paying a severe price. Once he had his plan, he practiced it over and over again. One shot. He made a few minor alterations to the scene, and went through it again. More alterations, more practice. Eventually he walked home, head down, deep in thought. It was well past 2am.

It was still morning when the first spectators started showing up for the battle. Word had spread through the entire school community—this was going to be a “biggie.” Yousseff was going to be utterly destroyed by Marak. It was going to be great sport, royal entertainment. Secretly, everyone wanted Marak to be soundly thrashed. Realistically, they knew that it was simply not going to happen. No one wanted Yousseff to be seriously hurt, either, as he was well liked. But, at the end of the day, they all believed that Yousseff would take some shots to the head, cry “uncle,” and that Marak would continue to make lewd remarks about and to his sisters. After a week or two, he would get bored with the sport and switch to terrorizing someone else. Life for children in a small town on the border of Afghanistan was not that different from life in any country’s small town.

The gathering crowd was met by an odd sight. A large, round stone, some four feet in height, had been rolled into the arena, and Yousseff was perched upon it, silent and unmoving. A number of the children laughed and poked fun at him. “Praying to the gods before your demise?” they asked. There were questions about where the stone had come from, and what on earth he thought he was doing, but Yousseff sat, unmoving and unresponsive.

Eventually even Izzy prompted him, trying to get some reaction from the silent boy. “Youss, he’s coming. Do something,” he whispered. But still Yousseff did not move.

Izzy turned to Rika, whose eyes were red from crying. “He’s gone crazy, Rik. He is so fearful that he is now mad.”

Rika called to Yousseff. “Youssi. Youss. Do something! This is crazy.” She came to the base of the rock. “Youssi, he will kill you.” But Yousseff remained impassive. Or did he? Rika stared closely at her friend. She could have sworn that he’d winked at her.

At length, amidst a crowd of friends, well-wishers, and a few of the older girls from the community school, Marak arrived. He snorted with laughter when he saw the immobile Yousseff, sitting quietly on a large rock in the center of the arena. The crowd moved back to the perimeter of the circle, and the noise diminished until there was a tense silence. The only sound was the wind in the trees, and the distant waters of the Kabul River. After a minute of uncomfortable silence, Marak spoke.

“Hey, look. A little Buddha, sitting on a rock. Does little Buddha want to play?” He gave Yousseff a rough shove, but Yousseff said and did nothing. A harder shove almost knocked Yousseff off the rock. Still Yousseff neither moved nor spoke.

“Okay then, soft little boy with no penis, I must go and give that little dock whore sister of yours some pleasure. Then maybe satisfy your ugly mother, too, since your father can’t.”

Yousseff remained mute and motionless.

“Fine then, soft little girl. I am going.” Marak turned to leave.

As Marak began to walk away, Yousseff finally stood up. The rock itself was very large, and it had taken Yousseff several hours of hard work to roll it into the center of the arena. But now he had the advantage of looking down on his opponent.

“Ahh,” said Marak. “The little boy wants to play after all. Well, we’ll play. Then I shall go please your sister.”

Yousseff looked directly at Marak, but still said nothing. Marak took a fighter’s stance, curled his hands into fists, and shifted his weight rapidly from foot to foot.

“Let’s go, little lamb. Time to play,” he mocked.

Yousseff continued to look at him, but remained in the same position, relaxed and with his hands at his sides. Marak feigned one or two imaginary punches in Yousseff ’s direction, then a few more.

“Come on, little boy,” he said more aggressively. Still Yousseff remained unmoving, his feet resting on the rock, four feet above the ground upon which the ever more agitated Marak danced. The punches hit the air in flurries, with no reaction from Yousseff. Eventually a few punches landed on Yousseff’s shins, first lightly, then with increasing intensity. Still there was no reaction from Yousseff. Finally Marak turned and walked away from the stone, his hands in the air.

“I guess the little piece of worm vomit wants me to pleasure his sister and mother after all,” he said. There was general laughter and some booing from the crowd. Then, as Marak was about to leave the perimeter of the Four Cedars, Yousseff spoke.

“Marak, we are having a fight. It is not over. Are you walking away from me? Are you unwilling to fight me? Are you acknowledging defeat?”

Marak stopped in his tracks, the blood rushing to his face. “What?” he thundered.

“We’re having a fight. Are you walking off the battlefield? Only a sick little coward with a dog for a mother and a pig for a father does that.”

“That’s it. Now you die.” Marak came rushing at Yousseff, and launched himself directly at the smaller boy, aiming for his knees, to bring him off his perch American-football style. Marak felt a glorious surge of power and adrenalin as he rocketed toward Yousseff. But when he got there, Yousseff had disappeared. As he sailed forward over the rock, Marak felt blinding pain in his lower back, in both kidneys. There was a shattering blow on the back of his head, then a second, and a third. He quickly started to pray for unconsciousness.

The battle was recalled by many people over many years, and was embellished some in each retelling. Yousseff himself recalled the truth of it for the rest of his life. When Marak came charging, Yousseff had emptied his mind. His field of vision had narrowed, and his focus came to include only the image of Marak hurtling toward him. “One shot, one shot,” was his mantra.

At the last possible instant before contact, Yousseff jumped straight up and threw his arms skyward, with open hands. Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was the practicing that he had done. His outstretched hands grabbed a lower bough of one of the large cedars, a branch whose position he had memorized, and in one move he pulled himself another foot upwards. As he had anticipated, Marak’s momentum caused him to fall on the large rock. Looking down, Yousseff let his body drop downward, using the large branch as leverage. He rammed the heels of his boots into Marak’s kidneys as hard as he could. Yousseff was a voracious reader; he’d read every book in the small school library, and in the small public library in Jalalabad. He knew some anatomy, and knew what a hard blow to the kidneys could do, especially if it was unexpected. In the moment of pain and disorientation that followed, Yousseff dropped out of the tree to the ground, where he had left a few strategically placed rocks around the base of the larger stone. He grabbed one and smashed it with all his might across the back of Marak’s head, once, twice, three times. Then, for good measure, he gave the larger boy a tremendous whack across the forehead. As Marak fell off the large central rock, screaming and clutching his head, Yousseff kicked him as hard as he could in his exposed groin, and then delivered a final vicious kick to Marak’s head.

Yousseff stood over the incapacitated, grievously wounded, and bleeding Marak. Copious amounts of blood flowed from his head wounds. Yousseff held the stone above Marak’s head.

“Apologize to my sisters. Apologize now or you will die.”

Between moans and sobs, Marak did indeed apologize. Not only to Yousseff’s sisters, but to his mother, to his father, and to him.

“You are my servant, Marak. Say it.”

Marak said this, too, and in saying it Marak obeyed the Pashtun tradition of
nanwatal
. Absolute submission of the vanquished to the victor; the loser goes to the winner in utter humility and begs for forgiveness, after which his dignity is considered restored. The winner must accept this, and put aside the differences that had divided them. This was known more specifically in the tribal lands as the way of
badal.
Yousseff knew the politics of
badal
and
nan-watal
very well, and would use them effectively throughout his life. It was
badal
and
nanwatal
that made Marak his servant at a very early age.

Yousseff extended a hand to him, squeezed his shoulder, and said to some of the others, “Clean him up.”

The speed and ferocity of Yousseff’s attack astounded everyone present, and Marak most of all. Yousseff had never fought before, and had no history of violence that anyone could recall. Marak was vastly superior to Yousseff physically, and fought constantly, deriving great pleasure from it. Yet, in the space of five seconds, Marak lay on the ground between the Four Cedars, a moaning, weeping mess. On that day, Yousseff gained the respect of the children around him and became Marak’s master. It was a relationship from which they would both profit for years to come.

T
HE COUNTDOWN had been initiated. The audience was diverse and colorful, consisting of the locals from Bazemah (most of the town had turned out), military people from both Libya and the United States, munitions experts, and Richard and his small crew of CIA personnel. A small village of reporters from around the world was also assembled and, of course, Minyar himself, for the benefit of the media and his image. With him, Minyar had a large entourage of security people, counselors, military representatives, and various assistants. A festive atmosphere prevailed.

McMurray had set up monitors to project the countdown that was taking place on a Dell laptop, now ten miles away at Ground Zero. The final countdown had begun. Ten. Nine. Eight...

I
T WAS STILL PRE-DAWN at the RCMP complex in Vancouver. Indy smiled as he hung up his telephone. At present he was appreciating that, as so often happens in police work, an amazing lead had just fallen into his lap. He had been speaking with Catherine Gray. She was 30 years old and already a Corporal, running the drug section in the Kootenays, headquartered in Cranbrook, BC. She was at work at 6AM, and was as obsessed with finding “the hole” in the border as Indy was. Now maybe, just maybe, she had found something.

“We had a strange situation out of Fernie last week,” Catherine told him. Fernie was a small but scenic mountain town located in the BC Rockies, near the Alberta and Montana borders.

“A man named Benny Hallett showed up at the local clinic with a grossly infected knee. Osteomyelitis, that’s what the doctors said. A dangerous bone infection. He’d been involved in some kind of accident. Somehow he shot himself, or someone shot him in the knee. He was moved to Vancouver General. He’s there right now.” She was speaking in rushed and excited tones.

Vancouver General Hospital happened to be a ten-minute walk from Indy’s Heather Street complex. A short morning stroll. “Well, what’s so strange about that?” Indy asked. “Gunshot accidents are not all that unusual. Accidents happen all the time.”

When she told him what she meant, and who Benny Hallett was, Indy was definitely curious. “I’ll check him out,” he said. He was in such a rush to grab his coat and get out the door that he forgot to turn off the small television sitting in the corner of his cubicle-sized office. “Seven, six, five...” chanted the CBC reporter, live from the Libyan desert.

I
T WAS 9AM IN WASHINGTON, DC. Turbee had stumbled in to work ten minutes earlier. He was paler than usual, and there were deep black circles under his eyes. He hadn’t gone out, partied, or done whatever it was his age group did. He just hadn’t slept. Sleep had never come easy for him, and sometimes it was downright impossible. His mind would become obsessed with a mathematical problem and refuse to let go, for days on end. He would pace, talk to himself, and fret at a computer screen all night in his small apartment. In one of these sleepless episodes a few years earlier, he had worked for seven days straight, cobbling together a series of fuzzy search algorithms that had made him millions of dollars. This tendency didn’t bother him as much as it would have bothered someone else — the lack of sleep was bearable. It was the autism and fear of social situations that actually kept him from leading a normal life. The Paxil and Ritalin derivatives he took for his autism didn’t help much with the sleeping, but without them life would have been unbearable, for both him and those around him. He would never have been able to function, even minimally, in the loud TTIC control room.

Dan and the rest of his crew had been at their stations since 6:30 or 7AM. The director glanced up coldly as Turbee entered, one shoelace untied, and unshaven. Was he wearing the same clothes as yesterday? Did he sleep in those jeans? Did he ever even comb his hair? Dan’s disapproving observations were short-lived, as the countdown on the other side of the planet reached its final stages. The large central screens all showed the unfolding drama in Bazemah. One screen was tuned to CNN, two others to BBC and Libya’s own national television network. The countdown was in full swing.

“Four, three, two...” muttered Turbee, sitting down and looking up for long enough to notice what was going on in the world.

T
HE LOWER SIKARIM CAVES were well lit. They had been created millions of years earlier by mountain run-off penetrating the softer limestone, carving out a cave system that reached for endless miles and to unknown depths. The supply of water was endless and pure, and the power generated by the waterfalls was plentiful. The complex that had been built there had its own hydroelectric generators, utilizing one of the many waterfalls that cascaded from Mount Sikarim. Miles of electrical cable ran through the tunnels, distributing the power rendered by that generator. The cave system’s lower entrance was only 12 miles south of the ancient smuggler’s trail, but was impossible to find without one of the local peasant guides. The main cave opening was hidden beneath cliff formations and foliage, and was used sparingly. Still, its occupants were constantly surveying the skies for the Predator Drones of the enemy. They knew that the Great Satan was corrupt and morally bankrupt, but devilishly clever. And they did not want this hideout discovered.

The people who tended the Emir lived in these caves. There was a large kitchen, stocked with many provisions. This was where the bread was baked, and the vegetables and meats stored. There were sleeping quarters for a number of servants in the various smaller caves. Passageways connecting the rooms to different areas and other passageways made a maze of the endless cave system.

Food and servants were not the only things housed here. Enough ammunition and material to wage a devastating terrorist attack had been built up over the years. The caves had also given the local peasants shelter from many an invading army, and were set up to take in a large number of people with little or no advance notice. Any invader gained control only of the plains and river valleys. The Pashtun people, Yousseff’s people, had never been controlled or ruled by anyone. They had not been conquered or dominated by Alexander the Great, the Mongols, the English, the powerful and mechanized Soviet Army, the Taliban, or the Americans, with all their fabulous war technology. The caves were vast and complex, and unarguably under the sole dominion of the Pashtun mountain people. Many countries had conquered Afghanistan; none had conquered these mountains, the caves within them, or the people who took shelter there.

The upper caves were more than a mile removed from the lower entrance, and over 1,000 feet higher. The routes were complex; there were many paths and tunnel openings along the climb. Only the experienced guides knew the route from the lower caves to the upper. The Emir made this walk daily, for exercise and discipline. The upper cave opened onto the northeastern wall of the mountain, and provided a breathtaking view of the Kabul River Valley, with Kabul in the distance, and the soaring Hindu Kush beyond. It broke into a cliff wall that was more than 3,000 feet in height and was so sheer that no man had yet climbed it. The opening was more than 20 feet wide, and 12 feet high, and the cliff wall angled out over it, making the cave invisible from the sky. Only a low flight pass through the valley, with dangerous and unpredictable crosswinds and along precisely the correct angle, would reveal it. Even then it appeared to be only an innocent recession in the cliff wall. The Emir had spent many hours on this very cliff edge, in solitary study and silent meditation, without fear of discovery. There was seldom any activity in this highest reach. It was here that the meeting was going to take place.

When Yousseff entered the chamber, he found the Emir sitting robed and cross-legged on the floor, his beard long, his one living eye a deep black orb, recessed in a crevassed face. The other eye was white and dead, burned and destroyed by torturers many years earlier. He sat with his Egyptian and Pakistani engineers. At the outer perimeter of the large cave stood the Emir’s armed guards.

The Emir saw Yousseff appear in the doorway, and motioned for him to sit down. The cave floor was richly carpeted, and tapestries hung on the walls. It was lit with soft lights, creating fleeting reflections on weathered tribal faces. One set of electrical cables ran along the wall, leading to the other caves. Yousseff observed all of this silently, making himself familiar with his surroundings, and then sat down across from the Emir.

The Emir had been born Gul Zhar Samaradan. As a child he studied in the Madrasas in Pakistan, but in the early ’80s he had joined with many of his colleagues and taken up arms against the invading Soviets. He fought courageously and well and was held in high regard by his clan when the Soviets left. He had been an important part of the Taliban takeover in Afghanistan. Then, in the wake of the terrorist attacks on America, he’d been captured by the Americans. It was thought at the time that he knew the whereabouts of the terrorists responsible for the attacks. The Americans sought to extract this information from him, but to no avail. The CIA had eventually decided to send him to a military base in Uzbekistan. The secret police of that nation were advanced and very effective in the art of questioning their prisoners.

The Emir had ultimately escaped, but not before losing, in a most painful way, toes from both feet, a number of fingers, and the sight in one eye. His back was a mass of scars, and his genitalia were covered with the scars of third-degree electrical burns. He returned to the mountains of the Sefid Koh a changed man, harder, more determined, and consumed with rage against, above all, the Americans.

This was the man with whom Yousseff was now doing business. For several minutes after his entrance, no one spoke. Yousseff was intently studying the plans and diagrams he had been handed, and hadn’t yet greeted the others. At length the Emir broke the silence.

“Can you do it?” he asked Yousseff.

“Yes, I think I can. We already have the Semtex. But this plot will take much planning, and many people will have to be involved,” Yousseff replied. His face remained passive, but his brain had kicked into overdrive. The possibilities. The magnificent possibilities. When he had first received the messages from the Emir, inviting him to take control of this mission, he had been doubtful. He had put some of his people to work on it, and had quickly uncovered the Emir’s plans. With the pieces the Emir already had in place, and the connections and funding Yousseff himself possessed, he had quickly realized that the plan would work. And that he would make a fortune in the execution of the mission. It had all started with the simple theft of the Semtex. This hadn’t been difficult. The Emir’s tendrils ran far afield, and were powerful enough to find supporters within Libya’s Benghazi Marine Base, in the warehouse where a substantial portion of the Semtex had been stored. From the point of the theft it would be a race against time; his people would be running a gauntlet, focused on a destination that would take them through dangers too numerous to mention. But it could be done. And the Emir would make it worthwhile.

Yousseff was here to finalize the arrangements, and to start negotiations regarding control of the mission and payment for his time and efforts. He didn’t tell the Emir that he had already set his own pieces in motion.

“We have six people undercover in California,” the Emir said, interrupting Yousseff’s thoughts. “Four of them have been in place for many years. Here is the name of the leader, and his telephone number, and the code sequence. Two of them are licensed and have experience driving large trucks.” The Emir handed Yousseff a sheet of paper with the information. “The other two live at the Grand Mosque of south Los Angeles. Here is the number of their caretaker. You should use them for any delivery needs.”

“Thank you, this will help.” Yousseff tucked the folded sheet of paper into a pocket. He looked at the blueprints and then at the engineers. “Are you certain that a bomb of this design can destroy the structure?” he asked the engineers.

“Yes,” replied one. “But the tolerances must be exact. There can be no deviation. Even a change by as little as one millimeter would alter the focus of the blast, and the structure would withstand the attack. And more importantly, the weapon must be placed at precisely the right spot. Again, small deviations will cause the mission to fail.” He pointed to a number of the plans scattered around the floor of the cave.

Yousseff looked at the Emir. “I can have the weapon built. I will use your people to deliver the explosives. If your engineers are correct, I can do the rest.”

“I can assure you, sir, that if you build the weapon according to these specifications, and place it where we say it should be placed, the structure will fail catastrophically. We have obtained the weapon design directly from Livermore Laboratories in the United States. We have independently reached the same result. This weapon will destroy that structure,” one of the engineers said, with some vigor. “That is a certainty.”

“Once the structure is destroyed, a large part of America will fall into chaos, and the loss of life and property will be significant. It will far surpass what our warriors have already done,” said the Emir. He gazed directly at Yousseff with a smoldering look. “Far surpass.”

Yousseff shook his head at the madness that burned in the man’s eye. He was not doing this for religious or political reasons, and could not understand those who did. “I will have great expenses, and will incur grave risk. Any of my men may be injured, incarcerated, or killed,” he replied in soft and even tones. “My ships might be seized, my airplanes shot down. Men have already died. I require funds for this operation.”

The Emir grimaced as though he had just swallowed something bitter. It is always about the money, he thought to himself. Always money. He looked at Yousseff, his one good eye blazing. “How much?”

“Twenty-five million American dollars,” Yousseff answered, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. “To be transferred to this account as soon as your messengers can do it.” He handed the Emir a sheet of paper with banking particulars.