Spy Thriller: An Involuntary Spy: An espionage thriller (Involuntary Spy Espionage Thriller Series Book 1) (21 page)

BRENT MARKS IS BACK IN BOOK TWO OF THE BRENT MARKS LEGAL THRILLER SERIES

   
 
When a naturalized American citizen turns up missing in Iraq, Brent Marks fights the Goliath U.S. Government's Patriot Act with its own Constitution. Santa Barbara accountant Ahmed Khury responds to the plea of his brother, Sabeen, a suspected money launderer in Iraq. Before Ahmed realizes what has happened to him, he is sent to Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp as a suspected terrorist, and is subjected to torture to extract information that he doesn't have. The courtroom drama mounts as the drama outside the courtroom explodes, and when murder, corruption and cover-up enters the picture, nobody, including Brent, is safe. This novel will challenge everything you think about patriotism, the war on terror, justice, civil liberties and freedom.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Ahmed felt the butt of the rifle strike his spine between his shoulder blades as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor. The sensation of falling was even stranger because he couldn’t see anything.  It was as if he were in slow motion, spiraling out of control. 

His hands were shackled behind his back, so there was no way to break his fall.  He landed on his side, slamming his shoulder into the cold concrete floor.  He could feel the fibers of the black hood against his lips, and smell the sweat of the last person who had been forced to wear it. He stood up and started to walk again.

“Move faster Haji!” commanded an authoritative voice in a Southern American drawl.  Ahmed felt the rifle butt hit hard against his spine again and he shuffled faster, within the confines of his ankle chains, which allowed only a minimum of movement.  Thoughts of his wife Catherine, her silky brown hair, soft brown eyes and captivating smile, and their two small children, Karen and Cameron, back in their home in Santa Barbara, flooded his brain. These thoughts were the only thing lately that kept him sane.

“Up against the wall! – Stop there! Up against the wall I said – now!”

Ahmed stopped and did as he was commanded.

“Listen up!” barked a mechanical voice in the darkness, “My name is Sergeant Brown.  You have been placed in my custody.  You’re here because you have refused to cooperate in interrogations.  The decision has been made to execute you by firing squad.”

“Wait!” said Ahmed, “I’m an American citizen.”

“Sure you are, A-hab.”

  “My name is Ahmed.”

“Your name is A-hab.  A-hab the A-rab and the only thing I need to hear from you today is whether you want your mask on or off.”

“Off.”

Ahmed felt the black bag ripped from his head and, for the first time, faced his aggressors.  The man who had ripped off his bag was a young man in military camouflage fatigues, holding an M16 to his chest.  In front of him was an eight-man firing squad, also in camouflage fatigues, with rifles at their sides in ready position.  Standing at their side was obviously Sergeant Brown, a hefty black man with huge hands, the only one not holding a weapon.  For a 25-year-old man like Brown, who was always inept in every way outside the service, power was orgasmic.  He basked in it like the sun, as if he was on a white sand beach in Maui.

Brown was proud to be in United States Army, the finest military service of the greatest country in the world, a beacon for freedom, the leader of the New World Order.  The Army was his life, a life that had so much more depth, meaning and importance than it did before.  He was entrusted with the valuable task of shaping young men and women under his charge to destroy the enemy and wipe terrorism from the planet.  The enemy was the low-life, stinking Arabs, those sand niggers, the little maggots who had strapped bombs to themselves and had blown his comrades to bits in Iraq.  They were like a disease, a plague that had to be wiped out.

“I have the right to talk to an attorney,” Ahmed pleaded.

“You what?  You don’t have any rights, A-hab,” said Brown, “You’re a terrorist. The only right you have is to choose to wear the mask or not, and you already exercised that right.”

The young soldier fastened a leather strap around Ahmed’s waist, pinning his spine to a wooden post.  He turned his head to look behind himself at the canvas wall, pocked with gunshots.  The soldier then strapped his ankles to the post.

“Please, let me call my lawyer. This is all a big mistake!”

“Yeah, yeah, a big mistake. I’ve heard that one before.  All you fucking Hajis say the same goddamn thing – it’s programmed. You should have cooperated when we asked about your superiors in al Qaeda.”

“I don’t know anyone in al Qaeda.”

“Don’t bullshit me, boy!”

Brown, like a machine, pivoted, walked a few paces, and then pivoted again, so he was face to face with Ahmed, took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and recited in a military monotone, “You have been found guilty of terrorism. The penalty is death by firing squad.  Do you have any last statement?”

“But I…”

“I repeat, do you have any last statement?”

“Yes, please, I want to cooperate, I really do, but I don’t know what you want from me.  I don’t know anything!”

The young man with the M16 then approached Ahmed, pinned a white heart onto his chest, and moved back.  Brown marched off to the right of the firing squad.

Sweat was dripping into Ahmed’s eyes, stinging them.  He said a silent prayer, thought about his wife and children, then looked at Brown with defiant eyes.

“I’m not a terrorist.  I am an American citizen.  I have the right, like any other American citizen, to a lawyer and a trial before any execution.  I have been denied these rights.  You will answer to God for your crimes.”

“To hell with your rights, boy.  We got all the rights here,” said Brown, who raised his arm and shouted, “READY!”
The eight marksmen cocked their rifles.

“AIM!”

The eight pointed their rifles at Ahmed, who shivered uncontrollably.  His knees gave way and he hung on the post like a man crucified.

“FIRE!”

The deafening explosion of the eight rifles was the last thing Ahmed heard.  He felt the bullets hit his flesh and his body crumpled forward, hanging lifelessly from the post like a scarecrow.

CHAPTER TWO

Catherine Khury sat in the plain-wrap waiting room of the FBI’s Santa Barbara field office, fidgeting in her purse for her phone.
Hold it together, Cate!
she told herself.  She had been living in hell the past few weeks.  She was an attractive woman, but her ordeal made every one of her 30 years appear as if she had lived her life without sleeping.  She looked at the time.  Only five minutes had passed since the last time she had checked.  A friendly looking, pretty young woman entered the room.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Agent Wollard,” the woman said, extending her hand, which Catherine shook. 

“Catherine Khury.”

“Would you please come in?”

Catherine sat in a small steel and vinyl black chair and Agent Wollard behind an aluminum desk with a false wood veneer surface. 

“How can I help you, Mrs. Khury?”

“My husband, Ahmed, is missing.”  Catherine’s bottom lip began to quiver, as she fought back tears.  She had to remain strong; strong for her husband, and especially for her children.

“Mrs. Khury, we don’t really look for missing persons here at the FBI.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Well, we do maintain a database of missing persons, but unless it’s a child, and foul play is suspected, we don’t really get actively involved.”

“Agent Wollard, I don’t know where else to go.  My husband and his brother have been missing since my husband went to Iraq to help him.”

“Your husband is in Iraq?”

“The last I heard.  But nobody has seen or heard from him in days,” Catherine sobbed, struggling to keep her composure.

Angela handed her a tissue from the box on her desk.  “Is your husband a United States citizen?”

“Yes, he has been for many years.”

The tears finally made their way over the spillgates, and Catherine emptied them into the tissue.

“Have you tried to find him in Iraq?”

“Yes, but the only person I know there is his brother and he’s not answering.  I don’t have anyone else to call.”

“Well, the best I can do is to take a missing persons report and make a couple of phone calls.”

“Would you please?”  Catherine felt instant relief.  Even though this Agent Wollard didn’t promise a solution, just having any kind of help made her feel less hopeless.

“Yes, of course.  Please, fill out these forms and, when you’re done, I can enter the information into our missing person’s database.”

“Thank you Agent Wollard.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

***

After Mrs. Khury left, Angela processed the report, and then called Bill Thompson, one of her contacts in Washington.

“Bill, I’ve got a missing persons case that I may need your help on.”

“Since when does the bureau really ever work a missing person’s case?”

Angela chuckled.  “I’ve been known to do it from time to time.  Listen, he’s an Iraqi born, U.S. citizen, who went to Iraq last month and nobody has heard from him in about a week.  His wife is worried to death.”

“Send me an email and I’ll make some calls.”

“Thanks Bill.”

CHAPTER THREE

Ahmed opened his eyes to complete blackness. 
Am I alive? 
Panicking, he put his hand in front of his face and he couldn’t see it.  He moved his fingers.  Still nothing.  Ahmed’s frantic eyes moved back and forth and there was not a sliver of light. 
I’m blind,
he thought.  A sudden surge of adrenalin compelled him to action.  His brain sent a signal to stand up and, as he did, the pain shot from his feet to his head like a hammer hit on a high striker in a carnival.  Gravity pulled his broken body to his knees and he collapsed.  He felt his body: No clothing. 

What happened? Am I dead?

No
, he thought,
I must be alive
.  He was in too much pain to be dead.  He felt his chest for bullet wounds, but found none.  Except for some tender spots on his chest and back and some scrapes on his knees, there was nothing.
They must have used rubber bullets.

Ahmed strained to see, but it was no use.  He felt his face: It was swollen and bruised. 
They must have blinded me in the shooting,
he thought.  As his other four senses came to life, he realized that he was sore all over.  He tried to stand again, but his legs would not cooperate.  He felt them with his new eyes; the bones felt straight and unbroken. 
Must be sprains, but why am I blind?
  He struggled to control the panic and the terror. 
Think, think.  Have to think.

Ahmed crawled on his hands and knees and propped himself up against the wall, which was as cold and damp as the floor.  He felt along the walled boundaries of his confinement. 
One, two, three, four, five, six, about seven feet in one direction.  One, two, three, four, about five feet in the other direction. 
Next, he negotiated the circumference on his hands and knees.

How did he get himself into this mess?  From his cozy home in Santa Barbara, to the battered and occupied Baghdad, to this.  His brother, Sabeen needed his help, so he went.  It was as simple as that.  The next events were a blur to him; The raid, his capture.  Now he was in some kind of military prison.

Since his capture, Ahmed had been stripped naked, cavity searched, shaved bald, beaten, kicked and spat on.  And then the mock execution.  It made his current confinement in this dark cage somewhat of a relief, not at all what it was designed for.  The walls were as cold as a headstone.  He felt around them until he came to a steel door.

He thought of his wife, Catherine.  She must know he was missing by now.  But even if he was to be rescued, what good is a blind husband?  An accountant by trade, there was no way he could work with figures as a blind man.  He would be a complete burden on the entire family. 
The best thing to do is to kill myself,
he thought.  He had some life insurance, and wondered if it would pay off in the event of his suicide.

***

The time passed, but Ahmed had no way of measuring it. 
How long have I been like this? 
Ahmed concentrated on his other senses, but there was no input, save the sound of the pounding of his own heart.  His mouth was as dry as a slab of jerky, so he tried to wet his broken lips with his tongue.  In despair, he dropped to the floor.  Lying there on his back, he rubbed his eyes and, suddenly, he saw tiny stars above him in the blackness. 
Light!  I can see light!

The tiny stars spread out in a geometric pattern, like symbols in a matrix. 
Those can’t be stars. They’re not random.
Ahmed’s accountant’s brain analyzed the patterns of light, but then they turned into eyes, angrily staring at him. 
Stop! Stop!  Please, somebody help me! 
Then the eyes pulled back to reveal a miniature firing squad, with their rifles trained on Ahmed.  He heard the blast of their rifles, almost in slow motion, and felt the bullets ripping through his flesh as his brain switched off.

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