The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy) Read online

  “He’s preaching, Steve,” Henderson said with a sideways motion of his head. “We can’t call that scholarly.”

  Mills knew he was losing, Wainwright saw. He admired the man, but he relished this moment as well. He could also see Mills knew that he should probably stop now, but that he would not—not before one last bit of venting.

  Mills narrowed his eyes. “I levered him into that last office on Three. That didn’t help, did it?”

  Henderson ignored the goad. “That has nothing to do with it, Steve. We settled my advisees in the basement. Everyone ended up with room to work. We have no vendettas here.” Mills looked away.

  Wainwright straightened and put his hands together on the desk. “Dr. Henderson, your opinion, if you please.”

  Mills tried one last time. “Jon came to believe in the things he was studying, Will. That may be a less liberal attitude than you like, but it’s not a sin.”

  Henderson straightened as well and turned toward Wainwright. “I concur, Dick. Pending extensive revision, I vote to suspend consideration.”

  Swiveling toward Mills, Wainwright shrugged. “We’d like to have unanimity, Steve, but we respect your opinion. We will let you break it to him. We know you can bring him back into line. It will take some work, but we know you can do it.”

  Mills stood, and Wainwright noted that he was pale. “Doctors ….” he managed and turned to leave. The doors closed behind him.

  Wainwright sighed. Henderson snorted with derision and gestured at the dissertation. “I look forward to seeing what comes out of this.” Wainwright tossed it into his outgoing basket. Mrs. Spencer would see it filed and tagged.

  “Maybe we can put his name out to seminary recruiters, Will. He could be filling tents in another year.” Henderson smirked, leaving him in the office. Wainwright retrieved Anthony’s preliminary draft from the “Out” basket and moved it to the recycling bin instead. Filing space was not here to waste, after all.

  Chapter 2: Familiar Faces

  He decided that he liked Decembers in Iraq the best. The weather was at its coolest now with daytime highs of about 10° C. As a habit, he tried to keep himself thinking metric instead of reverting to his native Fahrenheit. The clothing of the season made it easier to blend in, at least as easy as it would ever be for a man his size in Baghdad. At an even six feet, he was a full 195 pounds with few carried as fat. His black hair, cut close but not mil-spec, had streaks of gray. His face—sometimes with a light beard, sometimes with a mustache—was now clean-shaven. Subdued browns and grays without print or pattern made up the palette of his working wardrobe, from his loose sweatshirt to his khaki photographer’s vest.

  He held a small, rugged digital camera with a satisfactory range on its optical zoom even before digital magnification applied. The vest, worn for bulk, was not for extra lenses and certainly not for film. Some energy bars and a half-liter bottle of water were the cargo besides the ever-present Iraqna cell and Thuraya satellite phones. Most of his load was under the sweatshirt, the odd bulges shrouded even more by his vest. At his right hip, a Milt Sparks holster inside the waistband of his khaki trousers held his Don Williams-customized Browning P-35 9mm pistol. At his left, a combination carrier housed a spare magazine and a small but powerful flashlight. In front of them, a folding knife clipped on his belt. He liked being able to carry additional gear with comfort during Decembers in Iraq because he sought every edge he could get. The hunting here demanded preparation.

  The game this morning, as it had been for the last several mornings, was Persian—at least that was his operating assumption. Converting intuition and supposition into confirmed intelligence was part of what he did here.

  The man he was shadowing was even more nondescript in attire than he was attempting himself. Intelligence sources reported the target to be Iranian Revolutionary Guard. He used the unlikely name, for the majority Shi'a Iranians, of Abu Bakir Raad. His file folder in the USSOCOM database was growing in both size and intolerable intrigue.

  The intelligence pegged Raad as an enabler. He provided resources both material and human to whomever in Iraq could trouble most the Coalition and emerging government. According to the available information, direct involvement did not fit the elusive Raad’s style. The Iranian instead preferred empowering those who could best keep his anonymity intact through martyrdom, sometimes knowingly, and sometimes not. Raad, so the current thinking went, had killed a hell of a number of people in Iraq. About some his shadow could not care less, but there were many more for whom he did.

  He shot some good close-ups as his target moved through the Baghdad marketplace; they included those to whom Raad had spoken. The operative moved when he perceived any attention to himself. Slipping through the throng and doubling back, he rested now and again to try to ensure that he was the one hunter in the crowd. The city was still a dangerous place for a Westerner to be despite the progress made since the cataclysm of 2003.

  Saddam was in prison waiting his turn at the gallows, and back home in the US the political will was building for a troop surge. The covert agent agreed with the consensus: they could go long, go big or go home. He was a military man and wanted to win, and he felt more comfortable with his own people on hand. This scenario, though, was lately a luxury, one that he was usually denied.

  He closed the distance to his target enough so he could magnify the frame for a good quartering frontal face shot. Bracing his hand against the corner of a building, he leaned in until the jitter indicator disappeared. The digicam recorded the image as the man talked to a marketplace vendor. Wars against men such as Raad were slow, careful and quiet. They proceeded by building a network of familiar faces. The operative knew this man’s face now: the distinctive nose, the line of the jaw, the set of the eyes. The subject he watched was in a marketplace, and at the same time, he was in an arena. If the man was Raad, he had come to participate in a war. It was the American’s job to accommodate him.

  Baghdad with the rest of Iraq was ground where nations contested an undeclared war. The United States and its coalition partners wished to enable democracy; they wished to build a stable, prosperous nation in a region that held so much potential to throw the world into conflict. Iran wanted the expansion of fundamentalist Islamic government and the neutralization of its traditional enemy; Iraq was an inconvenient buffer zone between Iran and allies to the west in Syria. Beyond Syria lay tiny Israel, the destruction of which remained at the heart of so many Middle Eastern strategies.

  Nearer, Sunni and Shi'a Muslim rivalries made the Catholic and Protestant struggles in Northern Ireland look like a playground spat. The Baathist elements that held power in the days of Hussein had not forgotten the benefits of empowerment. Life was cheap in Iraq—even at times inconvenient. Blood vengeance was traditional, and those cycles of violence stretched back across generations.

  His current assignment here was longer than most, almost three years. He had deployed here previously, first as a fresh face with an AFSOC Special Tactics Squadron helping in the recovery of pilots in ’91. In ’94, he had returned as a team leader though not many would ever know about that visit. His Air Force Special Operations experience had morphed into the career with the United States Special Operations Command that followed. He had served most of it in Iraq. Only on occasion did he visit one of the six other nations comprising the Gulf region.

  The people of the Middle East and the hunt were now both part of him. He would rotate stateside when it was unavoidable. Gathering what support he could from superiors or making new contacts would always bring him back here. At this point, it was what he did. Rest did not come easily to him, and he felt no need to understand why anymore. The concentration, the goals, the setbacks and the victories were all that mattered until, of course, the day came when he received orders informing him he was finished here. After that day, he was unsure of what his future would hold.

  He knew men like himself who were now contractors, making huge salaries compared even to his office
r’s pay. They were risk-takers, professionals cashing in and sometimes dying before they got to payday. It happened to those who went too far into the fray lacking the support that he still could call on if the need arose. They had made their choices. He had made his.

  The target turned and took a step. Raad’s shadow returned his focus to the present as the Persian began to move away once more.

  The American realized that the man now beside him had not made the usual noise of a native marketplace purveyor or patron. Here, when people moved, they shuffled, stepped or bustled. This man had appeared barely making a sound. That put the Westerner on alert, a surge of adrenaline tingling through him that he consciously tried to subdue. He slipped the camera into the pocket of his trousers, leaving the lanyard loop accessible.

  He twisted his back against the brick wall behind him as the man spoke in Arabic. Did he know the most direct way to Haifa Street, near the river?

  “I am sorry—my Arabic is poor,” the officer lied. “Might we speak in English?”

  “Of course—I am looking for the best way to Haifa Street. Can you help me?” The olive-skinned man casually backed into an alleyway as a cart laden with clothing rolled past them. His peripheral vision caught at least one more moving into position just off to his right and behind him. Playing his part, the military man stepped just into the mouth of the alley as he assumed they expected.

  “It’s to the south of us, and before the river. I am not as familiar with Baghdad as I should be,” he lied again.

  His new companion smirked. “No, my friend, you are not.” He lifted the front of his sweater to reveal the butt of a Russian pistol concealed there. The second came another step closer.

  “You must come with us,” the voice behind him said.

  The shadow turned his head to look into the cold eyes of the man who flanked him, and a third was behind him now. He moved with them down the alleyway to keep his distance as much as to comply with the demand. At the halfway point, he could see that a car had pulled up blocking the exit, with only the driver inside. The team was complete, and the midpoint was far enough inside the alley.

  Without warning he stopped moving forward and twisted into a thrusting back kick. It connected with the man behind him just below the diaphragm and on the intake of breath. The leg came down as the thumb of his right hand swept the sweatshirt up and away from the Browning pistol. The sharp report sounded almost instantly after the weapon swiveled out of its holster, and just as his adversary behind him crashed to the ground. The 9mm hollow point centered the second trailing man in the chest; he stopped struggling to pull his hand out of his pants pocket, one that gripped a pistol. The big American pivoted, and his right hand that clutched the Browning smacked into his left in a two-handed grip. Round two exploded into the forehead of the man who had been leading the way, just as the Makarov’s muzzle was emerging.

  By the time the third body hit the ground in the alley, the car’s driver had seen enough. The only part of the vehicle in sight was the dented back bumper, pulling away. Pistol shots in Baghdad still attracted attention. The operative resisted the urge to search the men. He saw enough in their complexions, in their facial features, in their neatness and attire. They had not tried as hard as Raad to be inconspicuous.

  Unless the officer was mistaken, they were Iranian. He clicked the safety into place on the P-35 as he slipped it back into the reinforced mouth of its holster. He walked to the end of the alley where the car had parked. On this side, the shots were more likely taken to be a vehicle backfiring. He wanted to be well away from here but forced himself to move casually. Raad, he knew, was already gone. If again he was correct, so was a majority of the Iranian’s security detail.

  Chapter 3: Winter Kill

  Jon Anthony’s office door was unnumbered but posted outside with his name and schedule for the remainder of the dwindling semester. Two weeks of classes yet remained: a time of reviews and final exams. Grading and reporting would finish the year. “Winter Break,” as it was termed to avoid offense and respect cultural diversity, would run until the second week of January. A soft knock sounded.

  “Yeah,” he answered. Mills came in. His back to the door, Anthony was dejectedly reviewing term papers for Comparative Religion 205, one of two courses he taught for Dr. Mills. The return was a stipend that allowed him to live in an apartment instead of his Civic. The one place near his desk that could accommodate a visitor, an armchair upholstered with cracked vinyl, was clear of its usual clutter. Anthony turned in his office chair as Mills sat.

  “I’m sorry, Jon,” his adviser said. “Dr. Wainwright and Dr. Henderson favor a suspension of consideration pending extensive revision of your dissertation.”

  Anthony nodded. Wainwright told him as much before he had even made it out of the upstairs office. Henderson marched in lockstep with Wainwright when it came to administrative matters on the fourth floor. He could have been the man’s conjoined twin before some miracle of medical science had separated them. “What just happened? I mean, why?”

  “Well, to listen to the good Doctor, he’s upholding the standards of Britteridge scholarship.” Mills shook his head, staring at the whiteboard across from where he sat. “But this started a while ago.”

  “I’m not much of a Wainwright clone, I’m guessing,” Anthony sighed.

  Mills glanced back to him. “One Darby Richard Wainwright is enough for the world to handle right now. He’s a product of his time, I suppose. He insists on referring to his ideal of maintaining objectivism in academe; he delights in producing graduates who align to his perspective. It’s empowering, you see. My theory is that once he sensed a conservative direction in your work, we were in trouble. I should have known that. I was impressed and am still impressed by what you produced, Jon. It deserves better, and I’d have you hang on to it as is for the future. But if we want to get you out of here with a PhD, we’re going to have to redo some things if not start them over.”

  Anthony paused. “Do you think he believes in God?”

  Mills looked surprised. “That’s a hell of a good question, Jon. People believe all sorts of things, of course … but I couldn’t tell you.” He thought for a moment. “If I had to guess, and I do, from what I’ve heard him discuss on the subject I would call him an agnostic. He’s more a cataloguer of ideas than a searcher, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “And I’m just the opposite. That’s what happened,” Anthony said, frowning.

  “It’s not a single thing.” Mills raised his hands in resignation. “This office was meant for one of Henderson’s assistants, but I wanted easier access to you. I got to the roster first and Henderson didn’t forget it. Students like you get caught in the middle of faculty rugby sometimes. It’s unfortunate and unprofessional, but it’s also reality. You did well on your written exams, and this should have gone just as well. You know evaluation around here is subjective. Wainwright knows it even more. I’m sorry, Jon … just terribly sorry.”

  He could see that his adviser’s eyes were welling, and even before then Anthony knew that Wells was taking this as a personal failure. “I’m sorry too, Doc. I wanted to make you look better than this.”

  Mills nodded. “Likewise here. You’re a traditionalist, Jon. We’ll need to rein that in if you want to wrestle a doctorate out of this place.” He stood. “I’m available when you need me. I know you have a lot to do—hell, so do I. Think about what we can do to make that good dissertation of yours more palatable to Fourth Floor during your downtime.”

  Anthony stood, giving the man the handshake he deserved. “Thanks, Doc, for everything. I mean it.” Grinning, Mills clapped him on the shoulder and left. Anthony stood awhile staring at the reminders posted inside his door after it closed.

  Beginning again held no appeal for him. Walking away did not seem possible. He stood there, suspended between those two choices, and then turned back toward his desk. Work could be an analgesic at times like this. He sent himself back into it just to kee
p his mind from going into overload.

  “How's it hanging, Jon?” The typical enthusiasm of the greeting and hearty punch to the shoulder came from Christie Wilt, a friend and fellow graduate assistant from over in Women’s Studies. It brought him back to life where he ate, alone and morose, at the cafeteria table. He had knocked off for lunch after a few hours of grading papers and wandered to the Student Union. The two often sat here with each other comparing stories of faculty and fellow students in the world of postgraduate education.

  “Just ducky,” Anthony replied. Like any friend, Christie refused to let the subject go when he tried to avoid answering.

  “Ducky. That’s a Grade Two day. One step below Disco, above which there’s no improvement.” She plunked her tray down on the table beside him. “So what’s telling me that you’re full of it?”

  Anthony paused. “Maybe I’m not ducky, but I’m OK.”

  Christie had opted for the usually safe pork noodle casserole; to it, she applied Tabasco from the bottle she pulled from her large backpack. “OK being neutral, one step north of Not Worth a Shit. Two steps above Just a Little Better and I’d be Dead. I’m thinking you’re looking like maybe a Grade Four or Five to me today.”

  Anthony looked at her with his usual less-than-enthusiastic expression. “You categorize all your days like this?”

  Christie shook her head, digging in. “Nope, I’m not introspective enough. What’s your problem, Jon? Tell Ol’ Chrissie all about it.”

  Anthony shrugged; Christie Wilt was used to having it her way. A full thirty minutes later he had finally finished venting if not eating.

  “Jesus, Jon. That’s a real kick in the balls,” she said.

  “Yeah, that sums it up pretty well,” he agreed. He thought that Christie looked as if she might want to take Wainwright out for a one-on-one payback session on the basketball court. The prospect was entertaining despite the immense odds against it happening. He tossed the remains of his sandwich back on his tray. “So, I can think about what to do next over the break, I guess.”