Guardian (3 page)

 

Chapter Four

T
he sun hit the left windows with a full broadside as the Land Rover turned onto the road toward Ur. Kitra Shamar adjusted her sunglasses and cupped her hand against her temple to add a further shield. She would have slid over to the other side of the backseat but one of her agents sat there.

Not much further, she thought, wiping sweat from her brow with a khaki washcloth.

“Can you turn the air up some more, Ehud?” Kitra asked.

“I wish I could, Director.”

Kitra sighed. She was getting too old for this type of work. Thirty years in the field. In another few months she would retire as director of Metsada, a special branch within Mossad. This would be, in all likelihood, her last clandestine operation. And it was not even the operation she was supposed to conduct.

“I need that favor you owe me,” Glenn Cheatum had said thirty minutes before.

Kitra and the three other members of her team were already in position, ready to snatch Frederick Gottlieb, the Hamas and Hezbollah gunrunner they had been tracking for months. Then the call came. And she could not say no. Glenn had saved her life long ago. There had been plenty of opportunity for her American friend to call in the marker the last twenty years but he never had. In fact, Kitra had come to the conclusion, after the first decade passed, that Glenn never would. But when she saw Glenn's number on her phone, she knew. Knew before answering. Glenn would never have interrupted an operation without good cause. Which meant whatever had happened was serious, and the only way Glenn could make her change the operation plans was to drop the debt in her lap.

“What do you need?” Kitra had said.

“I have an agent in duress.”

“I have spent a lot of personal time planning this operation.”

“I wouldn't call you if I didn't need you. Besides, you're a bit old for fieldwork.”

Kitra had smirked. “Yes, but I like the . . . what would you call it? Juice.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Glenn spent the next ­couple of minutes giving all the details he had. Once he was done, Kitra assured him the agent would be found. Then she hung up and ordered her team off the gunrunner.

Simon, Isaac, and Ehud. Her team. All of them were young but experienced. They knew better than to question their director's orders. Within moments of breaking off the snatch-­and-­grab operation, they were in the Land Rover and heading toward Ur without uttering a sound. She knew she would not gain the same type of response from her husband in retirement. She had already compiled quite a work list for him. Getting him to do the work, though, was another story.

“Director, I see the vehicles,” Ehud said.

Kitra leaned forward so she could better see through the windshield. A Lincoln Town Car and a Renault, just as Glenn had said. Both shot to pieces.

“Stop thirty feet short.”

Ehud pulled over but kept the engine running. Kitra, Isaac, and Simon eased out of the Land Rover, Negev light machine guns in their hands. She surveyed the surrounding area. Quiet. No traffic. A small blessing.

Kitra walked toward the cars. The other two followed. Ehud remained in the Land Rover, ready to speed up and extract them if anyone launched an ambush.

As they grew closer, Kitra smelled cordite and gasoline. She scanned the cars' bodies. There was plenty of blood, but if anyone had been killed, the assailants took the corpses.

They were lucky automobiles hadn't been incinerated. That's what she would have done. Flares and gasoline. A grenade in each car if he had zero time.

Kitra moved to the driver's side of the Lincoln, opened the door and reached in underneath the seat. Her hand found the item she was looking for and she pulled it out. Right where Glenn said it would be. Straightening up, she held the cell phone at her side.

She scrolled through the call history. Glenn's number. The agent's text alerting Glenn that he was in duress. A note entry.

Hmmm.

Kitra opened the note. It read:
A. Haddad
. Nothing else.

She frowned, closed the cell phone and slipped it into her pocket.

“Back to the car.”

Kitra led, and Simon and Isaac followed.

Inside the Land Rover, Ehud asked her, “Where to now, Director?”

“Further up the road,” Kitra said. “To the construction site.”

E
hud parked the Land Rover in a makeshift lot next to a ­couple of work trucks. Again they left him behind to keep the car running. This time they did not bring the Negevs. Instead they would rely on pistols tucked away under their shirts. Kitra led the way into the site, passing construction workers and large earth-­moving equipment. The engines of generators knocked hard, reverberating across the desert floor. They sounded like they needed maintenance. They looked like they could use a mercy killing.

Kitra scanned the chest of everyone they passed, reading name tags. If they did not wear any, she listened to their conversations, hoping to hear a first name beginning with an A. No luck, though.

After a few minutes the three of them stood in the middle of the site next to a ­couple of enormous sewer pipes staged to be lowered into a long trench. Kitra studied the channel for a second, then looked around.

So this is where the Marines were attacked a ­couple of weeks ago,
she thought. The intelligence reports she had read indicated an insurgent versus Marine engagement. But what was so important about sewer pipes in the middle of nowhere to risk so many men in such a large-­scale assault? Especially a site nowhere close to fully functioning? She made a mental note to ask Glenn what truly had happened here.

Kitra wiped her forehead with the khaki cloth, then the back of her neck and her face. Even after a career in the region, she'd never gotten accustomed to the heat. Brutal and oppressive and, in her opinion, unholy. The Mediterranean climate of Haifa suited her best. Haifa, where she'd retire soon.

Soon.

“Can I help you?”

Kitra turned. An Iraqi wearing a hard hat and safety glasses stared at her. Sweat had soaked through almost every inch of the man's clothing. On his vest he wore a name tag: a. haddad.

Thank you for saving me time,
Kitra thought.

“Yes, you can,” she said. She glanced at Simon on her right and gave a slight nod.

Simon moved fast, his Jericho 941 nine-­millimeter pistol drawn and pushed into Haddad's side. He used his body to shield the gun from anyone else's sight.

“What is this?” Haddad asked.

Kitra studied the man's eyes. The pupils dilated and the eyelids expanded. He was frightened.

Isaac sidled close to Kitra and said, “There is an empty container box over there.”

Kitra saw it was one of the long metal containers common on cargo ships, probably used to transport equipment to the site. It was not in the best location for her purposes, but it would do. This would not take long.

“Take him there,” she said.

Isaac headed for the metal container as Simon turned Haddad and pushed the pistol into his back. “Move.”

Kitra followed, making sure none of the workers grew suspicious and decided to pursue them. None did. All seemed focused on their work.

Inside the container, the temperature increased about thirty degrees. Isaac removed a flashlight from his pocket and shined it on Haddad while Simon secured his hands together with Flex-­Cuffs. Kitra pulled the doors to the container shut and blackness enveloped them.

The small beam of light illuminated Haddad's face and nothing more. His eyes grew wider and his breaths increased. Sweat gushed from his face and neck. They could see him, but all he could see was the beam of a high-­intensity tactical light hitting him square on the nose.

“Where is he?” Kitra said in Arabic.

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

Kitra removed her Spyderco Chinook knife and flipped open its curved blade. It made a loud snap that echoed off the metallic walls. “Where is he?”

“I do not know—­”

“We do not have time for this. Tell us.”

“I do not—­”

Kitra grabbed Haddad's right hand with her left and extended his pinky. Simon held Haddad steady, preventing him from pulling the hand away while Kitra pressed the edge of the blade against the skin. Two quick strokes and the finger was severed.

Haddad screamed until Isaac stuffed the flashlight in his mouth. It sounded like a muffled wail in a coffee can. He stopped screaming, then Isaac removed the light and shined it on the bleeding stump where Haddad's pinky had been a moment before.

“Where is he?” Kitra asked.

“I—­I—­” Haddad sucked in a great lungful of air. Saliva dangled and dropped from his lip. “I—­I not know who you are talking about.”

“What I have is a very sharp knife and a sense of urgency. What you do not have is time.”

“I not know—­”

Kitra reached out and squeezed the stump between her thumb and forefinger. Again Isaac shoved the flashlight in Haddad's mouth, this time before he could scream. He forced it so deep, the man gagged and coughed.

“Where is he, or should I sever your dick next? Stuff it in your mouth like that flashlight?”

Isaac shined the light back on Haddad's face. Tears poured from the man's eyes. Snot dripped from his nose and more drool dangled from his lower lip. His chin quivered.

Haddad coughed some more. “A few miles away.”

“Where?”

“A dilapidated school.”

“Show us.”

 

Chapter Five

K
harija bin Al-­Aswad stood outside the school, smoking a cigarette and staring at the mirror shine on the toes of his shoes. A habit carried over from his army days. The bright sun reflected in the black leather, twin miniature balls of fire in a bright blue sky.

Behind him the door to the cafeteria hung halfway open. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Gazzar prepping his tools for surgery inside. The American lay there, trying to talk Gazzar out of his task. Futile. Gazzar loved this kind of work and nothing could dissuade him except a direct order from Kharija.

Exhaling smoke, Kharija turned away and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and began to dial a number. His thumb hesitated over the Talk button, though. Then it moved away and he slid the phone back in his pocket. No, he was not ready to talk to Nassir. Not yet. He could not avoid it much longer, but
not yet
.

Instead, his thoughts drifted to his wife and daughter. Malika and little Rasha. Their slender frames and dark fine hair. The almost identical smiles. Like mother like daughter. Lovely and kindhearted and out of his reach.

Were they safe? Were they taken care of? He could only pray they were. Nassir had assured, him but still . . .

Block them from your mind,
Kharija told himself.
Do what is required of you and they will be yours again.

“Y
ou don't have to do this,” Mike said as Gazzar spread clear plastic sheeting on the floor around the table.

Gazzar answered with a grunt.

Mike moved his head as much as he could from side to side, hoping to find a miracle. Nothing stood out as even remotely achievable. He tried to kick out with his legs and slide his arms up, but the straps locked him in place like a python wrapped around its latest meal.

“I don't have a lot of money but my agency will reward you handsomely for my safe return.” Mike forced a smile as Gazzar stopped with the plastic and eyed him. “More than these ­people could ever pay you. And I can also promise a safe trip out of Iraq. Anywhere you want. How's a nice beach in Bermuda sound?”

Gazzar stepped closer to him, unfastened the top button of his shirt and pulled it apart with his fingers. The same tattoo as the other guardians curled over his sternum toward his neck. Only the ink was stretched and faded due to his girth.

“Of course.” Mike's smile disappeared. “Shit.”

Gazzar returned to his plastic. Mike almost wished the man with the nice beard and perfect teeth were here instead. At least he talked. Gazzar only grunted and sighed. But the boss man, or whatever he was, had left him alone with the hulking surgeon.

Or butcher,
Mike thought, and shivered. Well, this might be the end of the line.
At least, the end of the line for my legs.

Gazzar finished with the plastic and walked to the small table with the instruments. His fingers skimmed over the saw and mouth bit and then wiggled over the needle of local anesthetic. He lifted it and moved to Mike's left leg.

“Seriously, you don't—­”

Gazzar touched the skin of the upper thigh with his free hand. He massaged it for a second. Then pinched it. Tap, tap, tap with all four fingers. Then he pushed the needle in, and pressed the plunger a moment later. Besides a momentary prick of pain, Mike didn't feel anything. Once a few seconds passed, the coldness of the metal table grew distant. Mike tried to shift, to feel the table again, but could only sense it under his back and his calf muscle. His entire left thigh was numb, like a black hole had replaced that portion of his leg.

After removing the needle, Gazzar walked around the table to Mike's right thigh. He repeated the procedure. Again the numbness grew until his thigh felt far away and finally gone, forever.

Mike forced himself to take long, deep breaths. To remain calm. As long as possible.

Don't scream
.
Don't give them the satisfaction.

Pain wouldn't cause him to scream thanks to Mr. Painkiller. No, it would be the sight that did it. Witnessing his legs being hacked off and tossed to the floor. Yeah, he would scream. Who wouldn't? But if he kept himself focused, maybe he would get lucky and just squeal a bit instead of turning into a wailing banshee.

Gazzar tapped Mike's left knee with the knuckles of his fist. Then the right knee. Mike didn't feel anything.

Apparently satisfied, Gazzar returned to the small table, set down the empty needle, and picked up the rubber mouth bit. He walked around the table so he was standing at Mike's head. Before Mike could attempt another word, Gazzar pushed the bit in, pulled it over his head and secured it tight.

Mike gagged at first and coughed. Then he uttered some muffled expletives around the bit. Gazzar sighed. Mike closed his eyes and tried to regain the calm he'd lost, knowing the saw would be next.

Why the bit?
he wondered, then stopped caring when he opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of the saw rising from the table.

Don't scream.

Gazzar stood over his left leg. The gleaming saw hovered over his thigh, just above the knee. He bit down on the rubber, anticipating the blood that would soon be jutting from his leg. The flesh that would part. The muscle that would dangle like chunks of meat from the serrated edge.

He watched Gazzar lower the blade to the skin and said a small thanks to God he couldn't feel it. Even though he'd tried to keep his breathing slow and deep, the air came in quick short sprints now. He blinked rapidly.

Do. Not. Scream.

K
harija dropped the cigarette on the cracked and faded concrete and ground it out with the right toe of his Kenneth Coles. Then he closed his eyes and readied himself for the muffled screams that would start at any moment. Even though Gazzar used anesthesia, the American would no doubt cry out when he witnessed the severing of his legs. They always did.

Instead of screams, though, Kharija heard a car engine. Then doors slamming. He turned, ready to warn Gazzar, but stopped when he heard the
phut
of a silenced round fired. Then three more.

The guards out front,
he thought.
Someone has come for the American.

It was too late. Even if he warned Gazzar, there was no way they could flee with the American. Whoever had come to rescue, they were professionals. And moving fast by the sound of it.

Kharija sprinted away from the schoolhouse, down an alley, and around a corner. His mind raced, already working on backup plans. First, though, he needed to find a place to hide.

How am I going to tell Nassir?
He shivered, thinking about it.
May Allah protect Malika and Rasha until I can fix this.

If I can fix this.

T
he door to the room burst open. Mike didn't see it but heard it, the sound of wood slamming against concrete block. He watched Gazzar's head rock up, shifting his attention from Mike's thigh to whoever had stormed in. The would-­be dismemberer's eyes narrowed and his thick brow furrowed.

Phut
.

A small round third eye appeared in the middle of Gazzar's forehead. It wept red tears. His body rocked forward and hit the table. The blade of the saw dug into Mike's thigh and tore a jagged cut across it as Gazzar dropped to the plastic sheeting on the floor. He didn't feel it but watched as the cut opened and blood poured over his skin and onto the table.

“Clear,” a voice said in Hebrew.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

Three different voices. Two sounded young, the other older, a little worn-­down, feminine, like she had spent a lifetime yelling at ­people. Like Glenn, only Israeli, and, well, a woman.

Mike turned his head as much as he could and saw the three Israelis moving into the room from the doorway, Jericho 9mms in their hands. The two younger guys he didn't know, but the older one he recognized.

Kitra moved to the table. “Mike Caldwell, I presume.”

Mike nodded. “Kitra Shamar, right?”

Kitra's eyebrows rose. “My reputation precedes me.”

“We met once in Cairo. Ten years ago. Prisoner exchange. It was only for a few minutes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I hit on you a bit. You rebuffed me politely.”

“Chasing older women, eh? Forgive me if I do not remember.”

“You'll remember next time.” Mike motioned at his nakedness. “Apologies for the lack of modesty.”

“I am sure I will.”

“I thought you were retired.”

“Not yet.” Kitra chuckled and pulled out her knife, then started cutting away the straps. “Isaac, this man needs medical treatment.”

Isaac moved over to the table and set a small bag down. He had dark short curly hair and a remarkable unibrow. He opened the bag and removed rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, and a suture kit. Within seconds he was working on cleaning and dressing the fresh cut. Mike felt bad for snickering at the unibrow.

“Did you run into anyone else coming into the building?” Mike asked as he watched Isaac work.

“Four armed guards outside,” Kitra said. “No one else.”

“Any of them tall and slender?”

“Tall and slender? Yes. One. Very young. Clean shaven, too. Probably a teenager. Why?”

“There was another man here. Seemed to be in charge. Tall and slender, too, but had a well-­kept beard, nice clothes, and perfect teeth.”

“Definitely not the same man. Or any of the others we neutralized.”

Mike sighed. “Well, I guess I should just be grateful you found me. Glenn called you for help?”

Kitra nodded. “He says hello.”

“How'd you locate me?”

Kitra pulled his cell phone from her pocket and handed it to him. “Glenn gave us the GPS coordinates.”

Mike took the phone and stared at it for a moment. Thank Christ the battery hadn't died before Glenn tracked him down. He kissed the phone.

“All done,” Isaac said, and packed his bag back up.

“Simon, Isaac, find his clothes,” Kitra said.

Isaac and Simon started searching the room. Unlike Isaac's athletic build, Simon resembled a bulldog. Straight hair, thick arms, and a squat body. A low center of gravity type of guy. Probably a power lifter in his free time.

“How are your legs?” Kitra said.

“Numb.”

“Well, let's sit you up.” Kitra grabbed his hand and pulled him forward while Mike flexed his abs and strained to sit up. “Better?”

Mike closed his eyes, dizzy from the movement. All the anesthetic and endorphins and adrenaline had taken it out of him. And now his shoulder started to burn, the local drug already wearing off.

“I understand how you found my phone,” he said. “But how did you find me?”

Isaac returned with his pants and his bloodstained shirt. “We will get you something nicer once we are somewhere else.”

“Thanks.” Mike took the clothes. “But I'm going to need help getting them on. And a sling for this arm. This shoulder is pretty banged up. Sorry for any close contact with my nuts and all.”

Isaac smirked. “Simon, a hand.”

As they helped pull Mike's shirt over his head, Mike repeated his question: “How did you find me here?”

“The name in your phone. A. Haddad.”

Mike smiled, and then winced as the shirt was pulled down his shoulders. “Do you still have him?”

“In the car.”

K
harija stood on the rooftop of a decrepit four-­story residential building. From there he had a decent view of the schoolhouse a ­couple of blocks away. He could see a white Land Rover parked outside. The bodies of the guards lay out in the sunlight. He was too far away to tell if anyone was in the car.

The sun beat down hard from high above. That, mixed with the exertion of running and climbing stairs, caused him to sweat through his shirt. He took long, slow breaths to regain control of his hammering pulse.

Who would have told this rescue team where the American was? He knew the answer immediately. Haddad. He was the only person outside the schoolhouse who knew where they were taking Caldwell. And he only knew because he was the one who was supposed to secure Caldwell at the site. But Haddad had been intimidated by the spy. Had not believed he could handle him alone, and so called in the reserve team in the Renault.

Two men walked out of the school and to the Land Rover. They opened the back door, pulled out a body and shut it. Then the two of them carried the man into the school, one holding the shoulders and the other the feet.

From this distance Kharija could not make out any features of the man being carried, but he could tell by the frame and build it was Haddad.

Haddad knows a transport is coming to the school tonight to pick up the American,
he thought. A plan formed in the back of his mind. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed a preprogrammed number.

“Yes, Kharija?” Mayyat Sadat said on the other end.

“Where are you?”

“An Nasiriyah, awaiting your orders.”

“The pickup for tonight is cancelled.”

“What has happened?”

“The Americans found their missing spy and have sent a rescue team.”

“Haddad caved, did he not?”

“Yes. They have him now. You were right about his weakness. Apologies.”

“Do not apologize to your servant. What will you have me do?”

“I want you on surveillance at the school.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“Nowhere.”

“Oh?

“This is your operation now. I need to leave the country immediately.”