State Of Attack

Habib pouted his generous lips before rubbing his angular face.

“I said, you heard of this Ibrahim?”

The general had found Habib’s actions too contrived. The guy wasn’t looking to buy time. He was looking to sell intel.

“It’s a common Muslim name, is it not?” Habib replied, taking a sip of water. “But a modern-day Khālid ibn al-Walīd, I think not,” he went on, referring to the original so-called Sword of Allah, a companion of the Prophet and his greatest military tactician.

“Look, we can dance around this all afternoon, if you like, but why don’t we just cut the bullshit and get right to it? Whatcha say, huh?”

“You Americans. So loud. So aggressive,” Habib said, his tone half serious.

“I apologize if I’ve offended your sensitive side.”

“I can see you don’t want to be, how you say, subtle about this.”

“Subtlety’s a luxury we can’t afford right now.”

“All right, general. No more dancing around, as you put it. I presume I don’t have to spell out the rules?”

“You don’t,” the general said.

He replaced the cup and leaned forwards, legs splayed, fingers interlocked between them, paraphrasing in his own mind what Habib would have said: I will deny all knowledge of what takes place in this office and when I have a chance for revenge I will take it.

Habib nodded. “There’s a rumour that he is protected by the Turkish mafia, and by the militant arm of Hamas in the Palestinian territories,” he said, referring to the Sunni terrorist group. “There are also rumours that he has strong links with Al-Shabaab in East Africa.” He puckered his lips. “Rumours, general, are very dangerous things, are they not?”

The general eyed the younger man. That was a helluva statement, he thought. He made sure his face didn’t show any emotion. “What are my chances of finding him?”

Habib snickered. “Zero, my friend,” he said. “You will never find him. He is a shadow, they say, a puff of grey smoke in the great conflagration that is the warring Middle East. But he has eyes and ears all over, by all accounts. Why do you want to find this man? I mean, apart from the fact he is a terrorist?”

Good question, the general thought.

Chapter 8

Tom had driven for nearly an hour. It was dawn, the muted outline of the fading crescent moon flanked by rolling cumulous clouds. His retreat seemed as if it was in the remote countryside, despite being only about a mile from Arlington County. A hundred-year-old, two-storey farmhouse surrounded on three sides by cornfields and elm coppices. Situated on the banks of the Potomac River, which was a natural border between Virginia and DC, its location was just about perfect for him.

He parked his ten-year-old silver Buick Century and got out. He walked over the flint-ridden path to the porch, admiring the apple orchard nearby. It was skirted by a tarmac walkway that led to a narrow road. On either side of the path, a pristine lawn sloped gently all the way down to the tree-lined banks of the river.

He could just about make out a patch of water in the half-mile-wide stretch. He could relax here and forget about the world of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, at least for as long as he wasn’t contacted via his secure cellphone. He paid a part-time gardener to look after the grounds and keep an eye on his collection of bonsai trees, the man’s wife helping out with cleaning now and then; but apart from them, people rarely visited. He lived alone.

When he couldn’t afford the time to drive up here he stayed in his small redbrick townhouse in Columbia Heights, a couple of blocks from the Metro station, located in the north-west quadrant of DC. It was an ethnically diverse neighbourhood that had been left semi-derelict for decades after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr, in 1968. But the last twenty years had seen significant redevelopment, with a burgeoning middle class and an influx of brand names. But he still felt solitary, even there.

The farmhouse was voluminous, some three thousand square yards, with high ceilings and moulded cornices. It had been bequeathed to him from his paternal grandfather, although they had only met on a couple of occasions, due to his sporadic relationship with the general. Once inside, he turned on a lamp and drew the heavy drapes, before tossing his laptop case onto a sofa and tugging at his silk tie. Strolling to the pastel-blue kitchen, with a Picasso calendar on the wall, he glanced at the time on the microwave on the polished granite tabletop, beside the digital radio: 05:12.

After eating a three-egg omelette, he stood up and strolled through the archway into his study area, holding a mug of black coffee. The house seemed overly large now, and he only used a few of the rooms. Switching on the ceiling light, he walked over to the leaded window, made an opening in the off-white Venetian blinds.

Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane, he thought he looked tired and apprehensive. Moments later, the local fox emerged from a small copse of trees. It had something in its mouth that looked like the carcass of a dead rodent. Something it had hunted down and killed, rather than scavenged. It looked up at him for a few seconds before returning to the shadows.

Two of the study’s walls were lined with bookshelves, containing numerous first editions that had belonged to his grandfather. On the third, hanging at a height of two yards above a console table nestled against the wall, was an original by Tsuguharu Foujita, a Japanese artist who’d applied traditional Oriental ink techniques to French themes. The painting was of a blonde, bare-breasted woman, her head turned to one side. He considered it exquisite. A painting he said expressed perfectly his dual love of European and Far East art. Like all the other art in the house, the Foujita was his.

Sitting at the table, he fired up his home laptop. The screensaver was a photograph of the Empire State Building. An avid collector of trivia, he still marvelled at an extraordinary fact every time he looked at the image. The skyscraper was one hundred and two storeys high. On July 28, 1945, a B-25 bomber had crashed into the side of it by accident, killing fourteen people. Remarkably, the elevator operator, one Betty Lou Oliver, had survived a descent of seventy-five storeys, actually inside the elevator. It was still the longest recorded fall of its kind.

He grinned, as he always did when he recounted her unintended escapade.

He didn’t like to check his private emails on his work smartphone and considered it inappropriate to carry a separate private one, so having a laptop here and at the townhouse was his way of keeping in touch with his few friends. Lester Wilson, an ex-US Marine who owned a private security business, and the only man Tom could call a true friend, had sent him a series of un-PC picture jokes. He knew he did it partly to wind him up and partly to loosen him up. There was no malice in Lester, except if someone was stupid enough to cross him. His punch was like a kick from a tormented mule.

After reading a few other emails from service providers and deleting promotional spam, he closed the laptop down, thinking that he hadn’t seen Lester in a while, despite both of them being based in DC, and made a mental note to catch up once he’d seen his father.

He stretched his arms up involuntarily and yawned loudly. He hadn’t slept in twenty hours but he was almost beyond it. He decided that he’d check on his bonsai plants, try to relax his mind and then hit the sack.

Chapter 9

Habib flipped open a silver casket and fingered a cigarette rolled with brown paper that he seemed desperate to smoke. He didn’t replace it. The general couldn’t figure out if he was trying to give up the habit or if he was just being polite. Maybe it was just a ritual, or another kind of habit. It didn’t matter. He’d had the same negative response concerning Ibrahim from every intelligence man he’d spoken with in Ankara. He brushed his slacks with his right hand before speaking.

“As I said, he’s come up on our radar, nothing more. Why are they protecting him?”

Habib shrugged. “Political and religious allegiances. And money. What else is there?”

“Can you give me something else?”

Habib closed his mouth, drew in his lips and shook his head.

Thinking the guy was overdoing the histrionics, the general said, “I could really make it worth your while.”

“A bribe, general?”

The general felt like saying: what the hell are you talking about? We both know I agreed to pay you a bribe already. But instead he decided to play along in the game a little. He sensed that Habib would enjoy it, that somehow he demanded it. But more importantly, the general believed that it would facilitate a positive outcome.

“Did I say that?” he said.

“It’s a fair question.”

“Let’s just call it a gift from one intelligence professional to another,” the general said, although in his mind he said, You want me to give you a goddamned contract signed in blood, or what?

“Then I accept this gift in friendship and cooperation, but only as such. A man told another man who told his brother who told me that a baba called Maroof, has, well, certain knowledge concerning this man. I dismiss it as mere speculation and womanlike gossip, of course,” Habib said, waving the unlit cigarette between his slender fingers in front of him sanctimoniously, yet with an effete air.

Interesting, the general thought. He eased himself back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Idle speculation, to be sure. But just between us, and to pass the time, if you will, who is this Maroof, the baba?”

“They say he is a degenerate who is addicted to heroin and Russian prostitutes, but powerful, nonetheless. Who knows?”

The general knew the Turkish mafia dominated the global smack trade. They processed the raw opiates from the Middle East in underground labs and trafficked the drug to the US and Western Europe. He knew too that the local mafia were more deadly than the Albanians and equalled the Mexican cartels in terms of savagery, favouring prolonged torture. The babas, or godfathers, were shadowy figures, who employed death squads such as the Grey Wolves. It was well-documented by the CIA that the so-called Turkish “Deep State”, an arrangement between the babas, politicians, intelligence services and high-ranking military officers, was impenetrable. The mafia ran protection rackets and in turn paid protection to those who could otherwise destroy them.

“Anything else?” the general said.

“That’s it.”

“You sure?”

Habib picked up the phone from its cradle and gestured towards the general with it. “Shall I call for your car now, general?”

The general decided not to push it. He had a lead and that was more than he’d expected before he’d entered the office. The game had come to an end. He stooped to the side and took a notepad and pen from his briefcase. He found that it elicited a more honest response than a recording device. It was a simple psychological tool whereby the interviewee perceived a lesser sense of replication, perhaps because it lacked the evidential value of a verbatim recording.

“Now, this damn conflict – what’s the army’s position?” the general asked, knowing that Turkey’s army was the second biggest in NATO.

His question was a genuine one. Part of his remit was to find out if there was any chance that the army would take a hard-line stance. Maybe even enact a coup, a temporary military government to ensure full-blown anarchy didn’t break out on the streets.

The “Deep State”, the state within the Turkish state, the general knew, had been born of the military’s paranoia since the fall of the Ottoman Empire. Turkey was constantly on the brink of some sort of collapse, they believed. It was ultra-nationalistic and, by its very nature, undemocratic and corrupt. But Turkey was a trusted ally, at least for now, and with the ongoing turmoil in the Middle East, the general had been briefed that the White House and the State Department were more than keen to keep it that way.

As Habib spouted the official party line of the increasingly Islamic party that held power, the general couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to Ibrahim. The man was becoming a menace, stirring up Sunni Muslim agitation and recruiting jihadists from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. Initially, he’d come up on the Mossad’s radar, the Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.

Things were sketchy, but the Mossad would get short shrift from the Sunni Turks, so this had been down to him. The Defense Intelligence Agency, the DIA, his employer, a relatively new federal agency under the control of the Defense Department that was part of the overarching foreign military espionage organization, wanted the guy found: dead or alive. Osama bin Laden style, although that was only known to a handful of people in the US.

“So, general, I’m sure you have other pressing business. But let me give you some friendly advice. Despite the heat, negotiating the political landscape in Turkey is like walking across a frozen lake, so you would do well to tread light from now on.” Habib smiled his closed-mouthed smile.

The general nodded. Habib was right, despite what appeared to be his change in attitude. Perhaps the bribe has mellowed him, the general thought. The Turk was richer by ten thousand US dollars, after all.

He reached down to his briefcase, replaced the pen and pad, got up and left without saying a word, feeling a little shabbier than when he’d first arrived, despite the intel. But then again, he always did after doing deals like this. When he’d worn a uniform life had seemed so much simpler, so much more black and white.

Chapter 10

After a full ten seconds, Habib opened a desk drawer with his free hand and took out a silver Zippo. He lit up and took a long pull on the cigarette before taking a disposable cellphone from his inside jacket pocket.

He’d get paid by the Americans. He liked that, even though he had put his pension, if not his life, in jeopardy. But he consoled himself by thinking that if the worst happened, he and his young family could run, and there were a lot worse places than the US to run to. They would put him into some sort of witness protection programme. It would be fine.

He laughed out loud like a crazy man. Habib, the double agent. Yes, he liked that. And the best part was that he would get paid whether the general died or not, given what he knew was about to transpire.

He walked over to the window and looked out at the seemingly boundless cityscape, at the blocks of glass and steel and the powder-blue tiles of the ancient minarets. These were the two stories of Turkey, he thought, at once a modern free market economy and a Muslim state that still believed dogma was relevant. As a result, he foresaw a great calamity about to afflict his country, the strains of which were already apparent. The dichotomy between women who wore make-up and Gucci shades, and those who wanted to beat them for not wearing the hijab.

But most of all he feared the Sunni-Shia conflict and all of its violent offshoots. He didn’t want his wife and two girls to be around when the streets were filled with sectarian gangs and armed militias. He had joined MIT to protect them, but, the dangers of his duplicity aside, no one could protect them from what was coming, he believed. He glimpsed movement in his peripheral vision and looked down at the windowsill. A moth was there, with speckled brown wings. It was crawling around as if it was drunk. He looked closer and saw that it was dragging one of its back legs behind it, which had been clearly rendered useless. He put his outstretched fingers close to it, as if he was coaxing it to climb up. But the insect just scuttled around even more slowly in a decreasing circle.

He thought about opening the window to let it fly out but quickly realized it was dying, probably of old age or sheer fatigue. And as he looked at it dragging its leg behind it in that self-defeating circle, he saw the general in his mind’s eye.

He’s just left, he texted with his thumb.

Chapter 11

Ibrahim was sitting at a dark wooden table with a pristine white tablecloth, the sides flanked by empty terracotta pots. The open-fronted café, protected from the sun by a red-wine-coloured canopy, overlooked a square, a paved pedestrian area dotted with stubby palm trees set in whitewashed stones. He was wearing a cinnamon-coloured suit and a brown collarless shirt. His long dishevelled hair had been styled professionally and rested low on the nape, his beard reduced to a goatee, the sign of an intellectual in Turkey.

A few yards away, a young man was selling ice cream from a shaded, hand-drawn cart, and children were lining up excitedly. It was 12:36 in Ankara, seven hours ahead of DC. Despite the heat, those locals who weren’t labouring in the open for a living appeared carefree and relaxed.

People forget easily, Ibrahim thought, or perhaps chose to believe nothing changes. The debris from a demonstration that had taken place the night before, and which he’d witnessed from the small balcony of his hotel room, had been all but cleared away. Riot police had used water cannon and stun grenades to disperse the anti-government demonstrators. If it had started up again this morning, the truck bombing, days in the planning, would have been thwarted.

This was an Alevi sector of the city. Filthy heretics, he believed, whose women wore Western clothes and prayed with their men. But within a few minutes the sedate Ankara scene would descend into a man-made hell.

He opened a copy of Zaman, the popular Turkish newspaper, and feigned reading the business page. There were four other people sitting in the café, a couple of old men, their faces streaked with deep lines like unironed T-shirts, a smart-suited professional woman, who smelt of lavender, and the pot-bellied owner. Ibrahim was six-foot two, so sitting made him less conspicuous. He knew that many Western intelligence agencies refused to employ a surveillance operative over five-eleven for just that reason.

He’d entered the country via Cologne under a forged passport, assuming the identity of a Muslim child who’d died at birth in that German city. Many Turks lived and worked there, and he’d been one of over a hundred who’d flown into Ankara’s Esenboğa Airport. Despite what he was about to do, he felt safe; untouchable, even.

He felt a tug on his suit sleeve, and peered down. A little girl was standing next to him, her wide, luminous eyes desperate to convey hope. But there was no hope there, he thought, just a form of dulled resignation. She was barefoot; her olive-green dress dirt-stained and frayed. He guessed her hair hadn’t seen shampoo for a month, and her fingernails looked like a coal miner’s. She was a gypsy girl, no more than seven years old, and he wanted her gone from the area. The truck bomb he was going to detonate would cause havoc. He didn’t kill little girls when he had a choice in the matter. Little Sunni Muslim girls, at least, as most Turkish gypsies were.

He checked his heavy wristwatch. He had time to spare.

She held out her hand, begging, but said nothing. Ensuring no one was paying attention he folded the paper and slapped her face with it, just hard enough to cause involuntary tears without leaving the skin marked. She turned and ran. He watched her until her fragile frame had reached the sidewalk proper and had crossed the narrow street at the square’s perimeter, her dark curly hair becoming lost among the crowds on the other side. When he was sure that she was out of harm’s way, he allowed himself a faint smile.

The bomb had been placed in a large wooden crate, which lay now on the bed of the stationary flat-back truck, covered with a heavy-duty tarp. There was no possibility of planting a bomb onto the chassis of the limo itself. Even if his associates could’ve arranged clandestine access, the chassis and wheel arches would have been checked regularly with mirrors, and an onboard bomb-detection system would have picked up anything that had been missed, as it scanned for magnets and noise signatures. A detached bomb had been the best option.

He would sit and wait, as if he was just another Turkish intellectual reading a newspaper and sipping the strong coffee; just another man shaded from the intense sunlight enjoying people-watching. But in reality he was about to become the most dangerous man alive, and one day, a day that was fast-approaching, after what he said was this somewhat irritating if necessary act, the world would know that, too.

Chapter 12

Tom had taken a lukewarm shower in his first-floor bathroom and had put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. He walked downstairs now and out of the kitchen door into the conservatory that ran almost the length of the back of the property and housed his sensitive bonsai trees. He had six inside, planted in ceramic pots, and a dozen outside, the hardy perennials.

There were weeping figs, Californian redwoods, junipers, Black Hills spruce, and bald cypress. He’d spent the last two years doing his best to re-create what he considered the greatest bonsai of them all, an imitation of the five-needle pine. The original, some five hundred years old, was one of the National Treasures of Japan and was documented as having been cared for by a Shogun.

Stepping forwards to a wooden table, he unfurled a cloth wrap-around and stared at his collection of bonsai tools. They were held in place neatly by their individual pockets, like an electrician’s kit: the leaf trimmer, the root hook, the branch bending jacks, and the concave cutter. The bon referred to the tray-like ceramic pot, with drainage holes, in which the miniature trees grew. The sai meant cultivation. The pot confinement kept the trees small, together with regular pruning of the roots and crown. The bending jacks were used to create the hanging branches effect.

His five-needle pine was on a bed of coarse sand and Akadama clay pellets, imported from Japan. He breathed in, began to prune the branches, taking particular care, as excessive pruning could kill the tree. Twenty seconds later, he wrapped some copper wire around the trunk and used a length to connect two branches. Then he watered it: a growing work of art.

That done, he walked back out of the kitchen to the living room and settled down on his ox-blood sofa, with a book of Picasso paintings in his hands. After flicking through a few pages, he focussed on Woman Ironing. Truth be told, he always focussed on this representation of the Spaniard’s masterpiece. He’d seen the original in the Venetian Hotel’s Guggenheim gallery in Vegas ten years back. It’d lingered in his mind like an exotic view experienced on a vacation, or the face of some former girlfriend.

The painting was superficially mundane, the colours of an overcast day, and had hung on the gallery’s steel outer wall via magnets. Painted in the master’s Blue Period, it was the study of a near-emaciated young woman hunched over a heavy iron, pressing a shirt. The woman appeared to be worn out. A sympathetic portrayal of the exploited poor, he’d read; a study in melancholy. Looking intently at it now, she reminded him of his mother.

He stood up and walked over to his drinks cabinet and fixed himself a Jack Daniel’s and Coke. No ice, about three fingers’ worth. Sipping his drink, he realized he had to focus on the living rather than the dead. After he’d gotten a little closer to his father, he’d questioned him about Dan Crane, the enigmatic CIA operative who’d watched his back as he’d tracked down the Secretary of State after she’d been kidnapped in Islamabad thirteen months ago.

His father had told him that he’d gone to Beirut to rescue Crane from Hezbollah in the eighties, and, unofficially, had paid for his release. Crane hadn’t given away the general’s identity to his kidnappers, so the general couldn’t give up on him, either. It was a code of honour between men and women who risked their freedom and lives on a regular basis, Tom knew.