The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy) Page 6

  It was just after lunch in the afternoon ending the Friday-Saturday Iraqi weekend shift. Those who could go home, in the tradition of workplaces everywhere, had gone home. Aban, a twenty-seven-year-old Iraqi police records clerk and son of a Sunni police lieutenant, was not one of those. He was usually the last to leave, which put him in good favor with his supervisor, especially on Saturday afternoons.

  Aban now had the place to himself; it was not a good thing in the light of his covert affiliations. Aban was a traitor. In his mind, he was loyal to another cause. Quietly recruited by an acquaintance of his Imam to be the eyes and ears of the insurgency in his department, Aban functioned as a mole. After successfully delivering copies of various reports to local contacts, Aban had slowly expanded his social circle to include others who could use the information that he could access. It had become a sideline, at times financially lucrative and always satisfying. He was physically a small person, smaller yet on the inside. His heart regardless yearned to beat in one of the great warriors of Islamic history. This was how he found his place in the struggle and his unconscious revenge on the strict discipline of his household. The rush of espionage had become addictive.

  Kameldorn had returned to his portable at the BIAP compound by 1030 hours, having driven as a local to do so. The waiting clerks in General McAllen’s office who had taken the call during his drive time immediately processed the report; he had assembled and submitted it via military e-mail at 1106. The digital photographs, now uploaded, sat in the server folder that he shared with McAllen through logging in to Army Intel’s terminal system. Images of the men and vehicles were accessible to users by 1130, and MI analysts began to match the men using facial recognition software by noon.

  The vehicle license numbers went out, distributed as an inquiry. Included was a routine request to the Iraqi police for owner registration information sent after the minarets rang out the call for Dhuhr, the noontime prayers.

  Things had slowed after Saturday morning in Baghdad transitioned into Saturday afternoon, and as a result, Aban was the first in his sector headquarters who viewed the query. He ran the plates and read the registration information. The lists of mental flags he had committed to memory alerted him to associates of his being under observation by spies of the infidel military forces.

  He sat alone in the Records section, thinking. He had previously passed along files by transferring them to a USB flash drive. The Americans, however, had advised the Iraqi police to disable removable storage devices on system computers. His Internet access was useless as a conduit for transmitting documents because it was restricted to a few Iraqi police and government-business related sites.

  After checking again the level of desertion in Records, he finally stooped to printing as much hard copy as he felt he could. Folding the sheaf of output, he shoved it down the front of his trousers. It remained there covered by the drape of his sweater for the rest of the afternoon.

  Aban dutifully stayed at his station fulfilling record requests until the afternoon prayers sounded. Shortly afterward, the swing shift started to appear. He began to gather his things, consciously avoiding any movement that would crinkle the documents at his midsection. He was out the door promptly at quitting time, drawing a breath of relief as he stepped out into the fresh air.

  He walked the few blocks to a nearby business supply store and asked to use a unit in their row of fax machines. He checked the number written on a slip of paper in his wallet. Loading his papers into the tray, Aban dialed the connection. The tone of the fax handshake sounded, and one by one his papers scanned and transferred. When it finished, he took the ticket printed by his machine and his originals; he stopped and fed those into a massive crosscut shredder on the way to the checkout. He paid the small fee in cash, declining his receipt. With the transmission over and no one the wiser, he had enriched himself by more than double his weekly salary. A vague thought of the consequences should he one day be discovered came and went with the masking self-satisfaction that he felt. He had been smart and careful, and it was finished.

  Kameldorn was relieved to see the Renault parked in front of the Iranians' flat when he arrived early in the afternoon. He had rushed the assembly of his report, but uploading over the IP connection to his portable was not nearly as fast as the network downstream, and the uncompressed files from the 6.1 megapixel camera were sizable. He had also shot dozens of them. The information, he knew, was already in use, and he was eager to see what would come of it. Unwilling to await the cover of darkness, he experimented that afternoon with placing the laser unit back from the window, checking the line of sight from the top of the tripod to make sure that the unit was not visible in his second-story rental to a passerby at ground level. He drew the curtains apart just wide enough for the laser and receptor to function as he confirmed with the calibration LED. He was in business shortly thereafter, at least as far as audio from the flat across the road was concerned. Nightfall would have to come before he could deploy the infrared scope.

  The afternoon passed uneventfully. Kameldorn, relaxing on a folding cot with his jacket balled up to use as a pillow, listened through the earbuds and occasionally thumbed a button to catch fragments of exchange on the digital recorder. Nothing substantial was discussed. He was surprised and annoyed to discover that the men had a small laundry closet in their flat as they washed and dried some clothes. It made any snippets of conversation much harder to discern.

  He listened to their laundering, and their food preparation, and their afternoon prayers. He ate with them though his evening meal was a PowerBar and half a liter of bottled water. The prayers following dusk were his signal to set up the nightscope after first returning the laser unit to its position closer to the window. As he did that, he heard the chirping alarm on a cell phone and caught a phrase in Farsi that he knew, “Zamaan alaan,”—“(It is) Time now.”

  One placed a call as Kameldorn listened intently. The conversation was in Persian, in which he was much less adroit although his mastery of Arabic helped with some common phrases. The caller confirmed a preset schedule. The details were as before. All arrangements were in place, and the Iranian listened more than he spoke. Anything else would have to come through one of General McAllen’s translators, Kameldorn thought. The conversation ended, and he heard the two express their relief by praising Allah in Arabic.

  He returned to setting up the infrared scope. As he finished by touch, the lights again dark in his rental, he heard at least two vehicles pull up to the far side of the building across the street. He squatted in front of the scope and again illuminated the parking area with the infrared, but the apartment building blocked any view.

  Minutes passed. He soon heard a knock on the door of the flat and a short, surprised conversation between the pair of Iranians. After a muffled exchange with the parties on the other side of the door, there was a pause and the scraping noise of the deadbolt as they unlocked the door. The next sounds were cries of surprise and protest. The unmistakable reports of suppressed gunfire sounded, which unlike their portrayal in film resembled more an air rifle than a pressure-release valve. He heard the cycling of semiautomatic weapon mechanisms and some follow-up shots. He harbored no doubt that the two Iranians were dead.

  He ditched the earbuds and was at his duffle bag without thinking: uncasing, loading and chambering a shortened M4A1 carbine. The red dot of its Aimpoint sight he centered on the doorway. He thought his way through his situation, suddenly conscious of the diminishing pounding of his pulse. He crept from window to window, trying to catch any variations in the ambient sounds outside. The suppressed gunfire had gone unheard outside the building, and he was certain that any neighbor of the late Iranians would be double-checking the state of his own locks by this time.

  He heard no footsteps outside or ascending his building’s stairway. Slowly he made his way to the partly open window, in time to hear the car doors and the sound of vehicles rapidly departing. He began to relax until the anger set in: he w
ould have to begin again. More than two months of work lay staining the flooring in the second story unit across the street.

  Chapter 6: New Beginnings

  Lieutenant General Peter McAllen had his own satellite phone of course, a Globalstar, plugged into a base station that allowed indoor use. He was in his quarters, reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris, when it sounded ringtone. McAllen placed a thin brass bookmark, peeled off his reading glasses and was across his reading area in two steps. His massive hand closed over the phone and held it at arm’s length, allowing him to focus on the display. When he saw the number, he cursed, then answered. “Dammit, boy, you OK?”

  “Yes, sir. Shit’s in the fan, sir. Unknown parties just took out my targets.”

  “You secure there?”

  “Look to be, sir. They booked it out of Dodge right after the hit.”

  McAllen rubbed his eyes. He had seen Kameldorn’s report six hours ago, and the routing of the information was clicking at high speed through his mind. He mentally reviewed as many staff on his end as he could remember without suspicions arising, then started thinking externally. He reached his conclusion a moment afterward. “Rogue Iraqi police.”

  “Sir?” he heard Kameldorn reply.

  “Vehicle trace—it had to be. We sent it out to the stations as a license and registration query. We got another problem out there.”

  “Makes sense, sir. Awaiting your orders.”

  McAllen thought again. “You stay put, son. Iraqi police units are going to be there soon if they’re not on the way already. You stay inside until I call you. The man I send you can trust. Don’t kill him.”

  “Affirmative, sir. Staying static, awaiting your call.”

  McAllen cut the connection and dialed immediately to a house in Baghdad. He waited four long rings until a little girl’s voice answered.

  “Marhaba.”

  “Marhaba, honey. Is your daddy home?”

  “La afham. BABA!” He heard heavy footsteps approach.

  “Marhaba. Excuse the child.” The voice was that of Baghdad Police Commander Watban Ali Dhiyab al-Jabouri, sounding a bit out of breath from his charge across the house.

  “Good evening, Ali. Peter here.”

  “Ah, good evening, my friend. You are well?”

  “I am well—and your family?” McAllen fulfilled his part of the traditional start of nearly every Arabic telephone conversation.

  “We are blessed, praise God. How can I help you?”

  “We have two dead men—foreign fighters—in an apartment in the northwest sector. A man I work with heard it happen. It would be best if we kept this one contained.” He heard the intake of breath on the line.

  “Yes, yes. I understand—I will see to it myself. What is the address?”

  McAllen recited it from memory. “… and Ali, my man across the street, he is dangerous. I will need to call him before you go up.”

  “I understand that also. Did he kill the foreigners?”

  “Not those two.”

  “Ah, yes. He will want to see the scene.”

  “Yes. Please give him every consideration.” McAllen hesitated. No easy way to segue to the next, necessary part of the conversation existed. “The men who died … they met this morning with the men in vehicles that my office inquired of just this afternoon.”

  Al-Jabouri was silent for several moments. “These things are related?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Information that we were interested leaked to the men who had them killed. My conduits are secure, Ali. Someone on your end shared our request with people we wished to find. They are covering their trail. We will find the cars abandoned or destroyed.”

  Quiet for another moment, the Commander then promised, “I will take care of this. Your systems engineers have shown us how. I am very sorry.”

  “It was betrayal of trust by another, Ali. You still have my trust. You always will.”

  “I thank you, my friend. You have mine as well. Keep me updated, and I will make every effort that we do the same. It will be as you say. I am on my way now. It will be a short time, God willing.”

  “Thank you, my friend. Call this number when you arrive and please before you approach my man,” McAllen asked again for emphasis.

  “Yes, yes. Fiimaan illaah. I will call.” The connection ended. Al-Jabouri was on his way.

  Kameldorn stayed on station per McAllen’s order, watching through the closed window as it was no longer necessary to endure the night air. He had broken down and cased the laser unit and the nightscope. His lights were still out so he could observe the scene across the dark street. His carbine had never left his side, hanging at hip level from a single-point sling looping diagonally over his chest and shoulder.

  The sirens started shortly after his conversation with the General. First a Nissan pulled up, light bars activated, with a pair of Iraqi officers who charged into the apartments. Kameldorn shook his head in disbelief. Another squad car arrived shortly afterward and in a few minutes several more. The block bathed in red and blue flashing lights. The yellow tape came out, cordoning off the building. Every unit in the complex had lights by this time. More police vehicles were parking on the far side of the building, obliterating any evidence that the attackers’ vehicles had left.

  He ate his last PowerBar and had another half liter of water as he waited. The police started going to the surrounding buildings, but he noticed that no one approached his. He smiled: McAllen had the reputation of thinking ahead.

  Finally, his Iraqna cell vibrated for an incoming call. It was McAllen.

  “Son, Police Commander al-Jabouri is outside. I have him on a conference call.”

  “Good evening,” a second voice, Iraqi, chimed in. “I am Watban Ali Dhiyab al-Jabouri. I will escort you to the crime scene. It is as you thought.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Kameldorn said, respectfully. “I am a tall Caucasian man with dark hair. I am wearing civilian clothing. I am armed. I will be coming down the stairs and out the front door. I look forward to meeting you, sir.”

  “And I as well. Thank you, General McAllen.”

  “Yes, General, sir. Thank you very much. You’ll have my report yet tonight.”

  “Good night, gentlemen. Don’t hesitate to call if I can assist in any way.” McAllen ended the connection, and they followed his lead.

  Kameldorn unlocked his door and hit the stairwell lights extinguished since the shootings. He walked slowly down the flight of stairs to the front entrance with his hands empty and in plain sight.

  Al-Jabouri strode toward him with a grin. “It is a pleasure, sir. I am a friend of your General McAllen.” He reached for the powerful handshake.

  Kameldorn thought that al-Jabouri was possibly the largest Iraqi he had ever seen—a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier—and in impressive physical condition. His hair was a mere shadow on his skull so closely was it cut, and a neatly trimmed mustache accentuated his good looks. Under a patrol jacket he wore body armor, and an M9 Beretta was strapped to his leg in a drop holster. He seemed to be all business.

  “General McAllen is worth knowing, sir, for many reasons. May I ask that a man watch the stairs up to my flat until we return?”

  Al-Jabouri grinned and turned, waving him to follow. He snapped an order to one of the officers across the street, who immediately took up a position at Kameldorn’s front door. The two ducked under the yellow police tape and went up to the second floor. This building seemed in prime condition, newer and in much better repair than did his across the road. It was a shame.

  They made their way to the unit and brushed past the officers guarding the scene, who regarded Kameldorn and his weapon with suspicion. The attackers had easily expended two dozen rounds in the flat, many of which resided in the two Iranians now staring flat-assed, fixed and dilated at the splattered ceiling. From the assortment of empty cases around the corpses, they had been finished at close range.

  Kameldorn recognized
his escort from the alley and assumed that the other man had been driving the Renault that day, as he had observed the pair afterward. That account at least he could settle. He brought out the little digital camera from his vest pocket and snapped a pair of pictures for his report.

  “They were certainly meant to be dead,” al-Jabouri observed wryly. “There can be little doubt about that.”

  Kameldorn grunted his agreement and began a cursory look around the apartment. The cell phone that he had heard the two using was missing. He knelt for a quick check of their pockets; neither dead man had it on him. Another potential lead had evaporated. The place was bare: a pair of suitcases only and some neatly folded clothes from the laundering he had listened to for an afternoon. Newspapers lay on the coffee table. He doubted that the investigating officers would find anything else. He straightened. “Thank you, Commander. I believe that I’m finished here.”

  Al-Jabouri nodded and motioned his men to continue processing the scene, following Kameldorn back out of the building and returning with him across the street. They paused in front of the doorway that led up to his flat, and his companion sent the man guarding his building back across the way.

  “Those two,” al-Jabouri said in a low voice. “McAllen said they were foreign fighters.”

  “Yes. It would be better if they could be explained in another way, sir.”

  The big Iraqi nodded his agreement. “It will be done. An unfortunate crime, there is still much violence in Baghdad. Our work never ends. I wish you luck with your part of the labor, my friend.”

  “And yours, sir.” Kameldorn shook his hand again and watched him turn and walk back across the road to continue the investigation. He sighed inaudibly. He had a Blazer to load and a report to write. Tomorrow was another day.