Against All Enemies

7 TRAVEL PLANS

Samad and his two lieutenants had fled the farmhouse before dawn and had made the laborious ten-kilometer hike across the border and into Afghanistan. They chose a well-beaten path and had joined a small group of five merchants so as not to draw any attention to themselves. As Samad had reminded his men, the Americans were watching from the sky, and if they took what seemed like a route with better tree cover, their vibrations might be detected by one of the many REMBASS-II unattended ground sensors that the American Army had carefully hidden along the border. That movement would subsequently trigger one of the Americans’ many Kennan “Keyhole-class” (KH) reconnaissance satellites that would begin taking pictures of them. Their images would almost instantaneously flash across screens in Langley, where analysts sat twenty-four-seven, waiting for Taliban fighters like him to make such mistakes. The response would be swift and fatal: a Predator drone piloted by an Air Force lieutenant colonel sitting in a trailer in Las Vegas would drop Hellfire missiles on his target.

Once in the valley, they found Mullah Omar Rahmani seated on a pile of blankets inside one of a dozen or more tents erected in a semicircle beneath several walnut and oak trees, and hidden from the east by patches of lemon vines. The morning prayers were over, and Rahmani was sipping tea and about to have some round sweet flatbread the Afghans called roht, along with some apricots, pistachios, and thick plain yogurt (which was a true luxury in the mountains).

Rahmani greeted them with a terse nod, then stroked his beard, which swept down toward his collarbone, terminating in a sharp point. His gaze, slightly magnified by a pair of thick wire-frame glasses, seemed permanently narrowed, which made it difficult to determine his mood. He’d pushed his white turban farther back to expose deep lines spanning his forehead and the lima-bean-shaped birthmark staining his left temple. His long linen shirt and baggy trousers hid his considerable girth, and were he to remove the camouflage-pattern jacket tightly hugging his shoulders, he might seem just a hair less intimidating. That jacket — old, tattered at the elbows — had been worn during his battles with the Russians.

Samad had to assume that Rahmani was not pleased with all the attention recently drawn to the area, although he might commend Samad for his quick thinking and ability to once more fool the Americans.

Rahmani lifted his chin toward them. “Peace be unto you, brothers, and let us thank God that we are here this morning to enjoy this food and to live another day — because the days grow more difficult for us.”

Samad and his men took seats around Rahmani and were served tea by several young men attending to him. A chill spread across Samad’s shoulders as he sipped his tea and tried to calm his breathing.

It was, admittedly, difficult every time Samad was in the man’s presence. If you crossed him, if you dared fail him, he would have you executed on the spot. This was not a rumor. Samad had watched the beheadings with his own eyes. Sometimes the heads would be hacked off. Other times they would be sawed off slowly, very slowly, while the victim screamed, then drowned in his own blood.

Rahmani took another deep breath, set down his teacup, then folded his arms across his chest, his black shirt and scarves pulling tighter across his neck. He studied them for a moment more, sending an icy pang into Samad’s gut, then cleared his throat and finally spoke again: “The Army has grown too unstable for us now. That much is clear. Khodai could have caused even more damage, and while I am grateful for the work your men did back in Islamabad, there are now many loose ends — particularly the agent our sniper spoke about at the hotel. We’re still looking for him. And now our new relationship with the Juárez Cartel in Mexico has been threatened because we were forced to kill their man. All of this means we must move more quickly.”

“I understand,” Samad said. “The CIA has recruited many operatives in the area. They pay well. It is hard for young men to resist. I have two men tracking one right now, a boy named Israr Rana. We believe he’s responsible for helping to expose the link.”

Rahmani nodded. “Some of us argue that patience will triumph. The Americans cannot and will not remain here forever, and when they leave, we will continue to train here, and we will bring Allah’s will to the people of Pakistan and Afghanistan. But I do not agree with sitting down and waiting for the storm to pass. The problem must be dealt with at its source. I’ve been working for the past five years on a project that will soon come to fruition. The infrastructure is in place. All I need now are the warriors to execute this plan.”

“We would be honored.”

“Samad, you will lead them. You will bring the jihad back to the United States — and you must use the contacts you’ve made with the Mexicans to do that. Do you understand?”

Although he nodded, Samad grew tense because he knew asking any favors of the Mexicans might both insult and incense them. Yet if he could somehow garner their support, his mission stood a far greater chance of success.

But how?

He would have to resort to hudaibiya—lying — as the Qur’an exhorted him to do when dealing with infidels.

“I must caution you and all of your men, Samad,” Rahmani went on. “Nearly one hundred of our fighters have already dedicated their lives to this plan. Some of them have already given their lives. There is much at stake here, and the consequences for failure are great, very great indeed.”

Samad could already feel the blade on his neck. “We all understand.”

Rahmani’s voice lifted as he quoted from the Qur’an: “Whoso fighteth in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him we shall bestow a vast reward.”

“Paradise awaits us,” Samad added with a vigorous nod. “And yet if we die and are martyred, only to be resurrected and martyred again, we will do it. This is why we love death.”

Rahmani narrowed his eyes even more. “This is why …Now, then, let’s eat, and I will discuss all of the details. The complexity and audacity of this mission will impress you, I’m sure. Within a few days, you will be on the road. And when the time comes, you will bring a message from Allah, the likes of which the Americans have never seen.”

“We won’t fail you,” said Samad.

Rahmani nodded slowly. “Do not fail Allah.”

Samad lowered his head. “We are his servants.”

Moore was en route to San Diego to meet with his new joint task force, and he was dreading the more than seventeen hours of travel time it would take to get there. As he sat at the gate, waiting for the first flight of his journey, he kept a wary eye on the travelers around him, mostly businesspeople, international journalists (he assumed), and a few families with small children, one of them decidedly British. Occasionally, he consulted his tablet computer, where all of his data was secured behind a double-encrypted password. Any attempt to access his computer without his thumbprint would summarily wipe the hard drive. He’d just pulled up some of the Agency’s most recent declassified reports on cartel activity along the border (he’d read the classified ones in a more private location). He was most interested in finding intel on Middle Eastern or Arabic links to that activity, but for the most part, the cases he reviewed were limited to warfare between rival cartels, most notably the Sinaloa and the Juárez cartels.

Mass graves had been turning up more frequently — some containing dozens of bodies. Beheadings and bodies hung from bridges were pointing to a rise in gruesome attacks by gangs of sicarios led by former Mexican Airborne Special Forces troopers. Government officials argued that the cartel wars illustrated the success of government policies, which were causing the drug traffickers to turn against one another. However, Moore had already concluded that the cartels had become so powerful that, in effect, they literally controlled some parts of the country and the violence was simply evidence of their gang law. Moore read one report written by a journalist who’d spent more than a year documenting cartel activity. In some of the more rural towns in the southeast portions of the country, the cartel was the only group the citizens could rely on to provide them with jobs and protection. This journalist published a half-dozen articles before he was shot seventeen times while waiting outside a shopping mall for his mother. Obviously the cartels did not like what he had to say.

Another report made a comparison between small towns in Mexico and those in Afghanistan. Moore had seen the Taliban engage in the same tactics and behavior as the cartels did. Both the Taliban and the drug cartels became much more trusted than the government and certainly more trusted than the foreign invaders. Both the Taliban and the cartels understood the power that drug trafficking brought them, and they used that power to enlist the aid of innocent civilians who were simply not supported or were even ignored by their government. For Moore, it was difficult to remain apolitical when you saw firsthand a government that was more corrupt than its enemies you were tasked with killing.

Still, the human atrocities committed by both groups helped Moore keep it all in perspective.

He flipped quickly through some of the crime-scene photos of Mexican Federal Police lying in blood pools, some brutally gunned down, others with their throats slit. He paused to stare at two dozen immigrants who’d had their heads chopped off, their headless bodies piled up inside an old shed, the heads now missing and nowhere to be found. One sicario was crucified outside his house, the cross set on fire so that his father and other family members could watch him burn.

The cartels’ brutality knew no bounds, and Moore had a sneaking suspicion that his bosses had bigger plans for him than they’d originally suggested. Everyone’s worst nightmare was for this violence to find its way across the border. It was only a matter of time.

He checked his phone and stared at the three e-mails from Leslie Hollander. The first was a request to let her know when he’d be back in Kabul. The second was a question about whether or not he’d received her e-mail.

The third was a question about why he was ignoring her, and said that if he replied she’d set up another session in which she would, as she carefully put it, fuck him until he was walking bowlegged like a cowboy.

Leslie worked in the press office of the public-affairs department of the U.S. Embassy, first assigned to the embassy in Islamabad and then to the one in Kabul. She was twenty-seven years old, very lean, with dark hair and glasses. At first glance, Moore had dismissed her as an uptight geek whose virginity would remain intact until some pale-faced overweight accountant (the male version of her) came along and wrested it from her after a two-hour argument in which the process of sex was analyzed and discussed, the position agreed on, the act both clinical and upsetting to both.

But, dear God, once the glasses and the blouse came off, Ms. Hollander revealed the remarkable contradiction between her appearance and what really lurked in her heart. Moore was overwhelmed by their sexual escapades when he could escape to the city for a weekend and stay with her; however, he already knew the ending of this movie, and the screenwriter had run out of ideas: Guy tells girl job is too important and he must break off their relationship. Guy has to leave town for work, doesn’t know when he’ll return. This will never work out.

Interestingly enough, he’d explained all of that to her during their first dinner together, that he needed her as a source of information and that if anything came out of that, then they could explore the possibilities, but his career at the moment prevented any long-term or serious relationship.

“Okay,” she’d said.

Moore had nearly choked on his beer.

“Do you think I’m a slut?”

“No.”

“Well, I am.”

He’d smirked. “No, you just know how to manipulate men.”

“How am I doing?”

“Very well, but you don’t have to work so hard.”

“Hey, man, look where we are. Not one of the top ten places to have fun, right? Not the happiest place on earth. So it’s up to us. We bring the fun.”

It was that positive attitude on life coupled with her sense of humor that made her seem much more mature and utterly attractive to Moore. But the credits were rolling. The popcorn bag was empty. The lights were coming on, and their good thing was over. Should he just tell her that in an e-mail, the way he had at least two women before her? He wasn’t sure. He felt like he owed her more than that. Some of them were quick flings. And a brief note had been enough. He always took the blame. Always said it wasn’t fair to them. He’d go a year without a relationship, even resort to paying for sex because the efficiency and convenience were exactly what a man like him needed. And then, once in a while, a Leslie would come along and make him second-guess everything.

He dialed her at work and held his breath as the phone rang.

“Hey, stud,” she said. “No satellite service? You see, I’m trying to let you off here. Feed you an excuse …”

“I got your e-mails. Sorry I didn’t get back.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the airport, getting ready to get on a plane.”

“To where? The place you can’t tell me?”

“Leslie, they’re pulling me out of here. I really don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Silence.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah,” she said. “So, uh, was this sudden? Did you know about it? We could’ve gotten together. You didn’t let me say good-bye.”

“You know I’ve been out of town. There wouldn’t have been any time. I’m sorry.”

“Well, this sucks.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I’ll just quit my job and follow you around.”

He almost smiled. “You’re not a stalker.”

“Really? I guess you’re right. So what am I supposed to do now?”

“We’ll stay in touch.”

A moment of awkward silence, just the hum from the connection. Moore’s shoulders drew together …and then it was more difficult to breathe.

He closed his eyes and heard her cry in his head: “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

“I think I was starting to fall in love with you,” she blurted out, her voice cracking.

“No, you weren’t. Look, we were just in it for the fun. You wanted it that way. And I told you this day would come. But you’re right. It sucks. Big-time.” He softened his tone. “I want to stay in touch. But it’s up to you. If it hurts too much, then okay, I respect that. You can do better than me, anyway. Get somebody younger, with fewer obligations.”

“Yeah, whatever. We played with fire and we got burned. But it felt so good along the way.”

“You know, I’m not sure I can do this again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Say good-bye, I guess.”

“No more relationships for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, remember how you told me I was helping you with the nightmares? When I told you the stories of when I was in college while you were trying to fall asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“I hope you can sleep,” she said.

“I hope so, too.”

“I wish you would’ve told me what’s bothering you. Maybe I could’ve helped even more.”

“That’s okay. I’m feeling much better now. Thanks for that.”

“Thanks for the sex.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You make it sound so dirty.”

She breathed heavily into the phone and said, “It was.”

“You’re a crazy bitch.”

“You, too.”

He hesitated. “I’ll talk to you soon. Take care.” He closed his eyes and broke the connection. I’ll talk to you soon. He wouldn’t. She knew that.

Moore gritted his teeth. He should walk away from this gate and go back to her and haul her out of that job and quit his, and they could start a life together.

And in six months he’d be bored out of his mind.

And in eight months they’d be divorced and he’d be blaming her and hating himself all over again.

The boarding announcement came. Moore stood with the other passengers and started halfheartedly toward the agent accepting their tickets.