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

  Commander al-Jabouri had a busier night. The two Iranians were in cold storage until he could arrange for a discreet burial out of his own budget. The report on the murders he took care of, writing it up as an invasion and robbery; technically it had been as there were items—wallets and identification—missing from the scene. The morgue workers would deliver the two for burial inside twenty-four hours per Islamic tradition. As the Commander, he deemed an autopsy laughably unnecessary.

  It was after 0200 on Sunday morning before the scene was cleared, photographed and taped off, and the building's occupants returned to their apartments. Al-Jabouri observed the last of his responding officers leave the scene before heading back to his darkened house. He quietly entered and thought better of waking his family by returning to the upstairs bedrooms. He knew that it would be a while before he would sleep, and it was, before 0400. The predawn prayer call came all too early, but he answered it anyway, groggily reciting his remembrance of Allah to begin the daylight hours. He could hear his wife stir upstairs as she did the same. She returned to bed for more sleep before she would rouse the children.

  Al-Jabouri was awake now and thinking. He rose and gathered his gear, hauling it back out to the Nissan Maxima patrol vehicle that he used as a personal car. The district station was a few miles away, and the traffic was still light. Arriving at the station well before his staff, he greeted the night shift as they wrapped the overnight business. He made his way to his office and brought up the terminal screen to the mainframe records system.

  He could sort by category in the database: he started with queries from the Green Zone chronologically, searching through the list until he recognized the item that McAllen had referenced as the cause of the previous night’s killings. Drilling down, he detailed the query, noting the time of submission on Saturday afternoon. He then brought up the audit list of accessing accounts, which was short and largely consisted of station commanders compiling items for the daily briefings that began the patrol shifts.

  Auditing logs were unutilized before the revamp of systems security late in the previous year. US forces, assisted by their FBI, had set about modernizing and professionalizing the Iraqi Police. It was but one of many changes suggested for the system. Most end users knew nothing of any of them, except administrators who could take advantage of such tools.

  He sorted the log entries chronologically also and noted the first entry, shortly after submission. Unlike the others, it was not a shift supervisor but a records specialist in a substation near the business district. The anomaly that he expected to find made him realize he had hoped otherwise. Al-Jabouri then viewed the detailed activity logs as the US military’s Information Technology specialists had trained him.

  The record indicated the first user had viewed and in a few minutes sent a request for hard copy output to a networked printer. This in itself was logged often, again by commanders in preparation for a shift change. It was odd for a records clerk at one in the afternoon on a Saturday.

  Al-Jabouri copied the account number of the clerk and cross-referenced it in the personnel records, sitting up in surprise when he saw the name in the user information. He double-checked the emergency contact information and suddenly became extremely tired. Another check of the shift schedules and he knew that this day would have an unpleasant beginning.

  Four hours later Aban sat on a couch counting his money. Neat stacks of bills lay on the coffee table of his rental apartment above a busy clothing shop. Within walking distance of the police substation where he worked, it held little other furniture. His contact for such things, whom he had met once, paid well and quickly. He had found the envelope of cash in his mail drop after coming home from breakfast at a nearby coffee shop.

  He heard footsteps in the hallway outside just before the knock came at the door. Answering, he saw the haggard face of his father and another even larger man behind, both in their police uniforms.

  “Father?” he said in surprise, and he saw the second man glance over his shoulder to the coffee table. He could feel the rush of blood to his face as he backed up into the apartment.

  “Aban, what have you done?” the older man asked.

  Aban could see that his father, a lieutenant, had with him a man of commander’s rank. Both looked tired and sad.

  “Father, I have done nothing. What is the—” The response garnered him an openhanded blow across his face, one that startled the larger man and made his father look as if he were nearly ready for tears.

  “Computer records are kept, Aban, computer user access records. Do not tell me that you have done nothing. Tell me what you have done.”

  Aban broke down then but remained insistent. “I have done nothing!”

  His father backed him further into the living room, pointing at the money on the table and thundering. “We see you counting your money! We have seen you viewing records in the computer system though you have no business! We have seen you print them, and we have seen you on the store’s video faxing them! You will tell us where, and you will do it now, without more lies!”

  Aban sobbed in response. Shame, fear and anger deprived him of any pretense. He reached for his wallet and withdrew the slip of paper with the fax number written on it. “This is all I have, Father. I am a warrior of the jihad. You have my confession.”

  The words were his last.

  The Lieutenant had drawn the CZ-75 pistol from his holster and shot his son in the face before al-Jabouri could react. Aban was dead before he could blink through his tears and fell straight down to lay in a heap at his father’s feet.

  Al-Jabouri, stunned, reached down a moment later and gently took the pistol out of his officer’s hand as it dangled beside his leg. He decocked the weapon. In shock, his Lieutenant looked at him seeking understanding. “It was a matter of honor.”

  Al-Jabouri nodded slowly. “There will be difficulties. You must sit, my friend. I will make some calls.”

  The older man handed him his supervisor’s badge and sat on the chair opposite the coffee table. Al-Jabouri had no words that he could conjure as his friend stared at the lifeless body of his second-born son. The Commander had been tired before this. He expected, before he stopped moving today, to be exhausted.

  Kameldorn had taken the morning for PT. He had little choice but to neglect his schedule during surveillance of the now-dead Iranians and knew that he could soothe his unsettled feelings with perspiration. Before sunrise he had donned Air Force sweats, made a small breakfast of toast and orange juice, and began warm-up with three sets of one hundred pushups. Three sets of fifty crunches followed, and he was ready for his run.

  His route took him around the edge of the wire as it allowed him to cover the greatest distance. The Air Police GPS had pegged it as a half-mile circuit when they checked it for him as a courtesy, and he usually made six oh-dark-thirty laps. He loped along without apparent effort this morning, thinking, occasionally passing or finding himself passed by other officers, some of whom had pace or a goal different from his steady jog.

  His work had been frustrating, but a military life was often frustrating. USAF Pararescue training mercilessly weeded out those who could not deal effectively with such circumstances. He was starting again because it was the only course available to him.

  He thought back to the day that he had lost Raad in the Hurriyah market and of the men, now all dead, who had been on him before he noticed. They had probably used the same strategy that he saw in the meeting at the factory parking lot: keeping back from their principal and watching Raad's surroundings for signs of unusual interest. Had the lookouts at the factory—and he had not heard of any identification successes—been using binoculars the same scenario could have played itself out again, and they might not have been as interested in conversation as the Iranians had been.

  He would focus on the men in the escort vehicles, as they were the only leads with any possibility of guiding him back to Abu Bakir Raad. Raad was returning, and General McAllen’s order
s on that contingency had been explicit. Kameldorn acted on information, and organizations efficient at uncovering intelligence would provide that. His confidence buoyed as he ran. He would have another chance. He could fail repeatedly unless it resulted in a trip back to the States covered with the Flag. Raad could evade him repeatedly. Kameldorn needed to succeed only once, and he had more successes than failures in his file.

  Crossing the path to his housing unit again, he realized that it was not the third or even the fourth time. He had lost count, becoming briefly self-annoyed for losing track of his laps until he realized that this, as well, did not matter. He was running, and his goal this morning had been a run. He was still pursuing a worthwhile target. Running, he would not drop his arms and fall to a walk until he was ready. Pursuing Raad, he would not stop until he found him or received orders to do otherwise. It was a new day just as he knew that it would be when he stood watching the Iraqi police go about their business last night. The new day had not failed him—so he refused to fail it. He would do two more laps and call it six. The extras, as well as the rest of what filled his mind this morning, would make him better, faster and stronger.

  The morning of February 22nd started like any other Hump Day for Tom Colby. He got a late start though he had skipped breakfast as on most mornings. Traffic was the usual DC mess, due this time to an accident on I-66. He had the radio on when the bottom of the hour newscast followed another of the traffic reports so necessary to the morning commute.

  “In Iraq,” the reporter chimed in her professional tone, “an attack has rocked the al-Askari Mosque, partially destroying one of the holiest sites of Shi'a Muslims in a dawn explosion.”

  “Oh, holy shit!” Colby exclaimed, reaching for the volume control.

  “Officials fear that violent reprisals will escalate tensions as efforts continue to form a coalition government in the war-torn country. Shops in the Iraqi cities of Najaf and Al Diwaniya are closed and demonstrations across Iraq are widespread. Retaliatory killings are already taking place in the area of Samarra, where the mosque is located. In Britain; the largest armed robbery ever has—”

  Colby clicked off the radio in disgust. “Son of a bitch,” he half moaned.

  He dug out his cell phone, simultaneously performing a mental calculation. Baghdad was eight hours east of Washington; it would be approaching four in the afternoon there. He went with his intuition in thinking that the State Department team would be in the office; they would probably have ventured out of their hotels despite the turmoil outside the heavily secured Green Zone.

  He scrolled down on his Contacts list and dialed, waiting too long for the international hops to connect. Finally, the ringing stopped.

  “Schuster,” a voice answered.

  “Bernie, Tom. What in hell is going on over there? I just heard about the bombing at the mosque.”

  Bernard Schuster was Colby’s Chief of Staff in Baghdad, heading his office and managing the local personnel. Functioning as an executive officer on-site between Colby’s visits, Schuster was in charge of preparing for the current initiative.

  “Aw, damn it, Tom, it’s bad. The Shi'a and Sunni militias have been blowing the shit out of each other all day. We’ve got dozens, maybe hundreds, dead. The military’s trying to keep the media here out of the line of fire, so you won’t see those reports come out for awhile. The Intel types think some bastard may have engineered it to promote civil war, and it has Al Qaeda’s fingerprints all over it.”

  Colby had finally reached his exit for the 50 eastbound and continued toward the Truman Building. “Bastards. I’m getting closer to the office, Bernie. I’d better get both hands on the wheel. You're heading back to the hotel soon?” He heard Schuster hesitate. “You can try me here later if you want, Tom. The couch in your office is looking pretty good right now.”

  Colby winced. “Hang tough, buddy. I’ll get back with you later. I won’t make it too late.”

  “OK, Tom. We’re all fine here. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you after a while.”

  Colby pocketed his phone and concentrated on his driving. Twenty minutes later, he was rolling into the Truman Building’s garage—courtesy of his executive parking permit—and wheeled into his numbered space just after eight in the morning. He had no illusions that his staff would be unaware of overnight events a third of the world away. They had been thinking of little else for weeks except the relocation to Baghdad, and he had overstocked his section with current-events junkies, not that it was difficult in DC.

  Colby was striding into the cube farm five minutes later, his face slightly flushed from his hurried pace. Most of the team had gathered in the conference area around a plasma flat screen, blaring with coverage from CNN on the bombing. Once they noticed him, he saw a hundred unspoken questions on their faces, and fifty eyes followed him to the front of the meeting space. It was a moment when the weight of leadership grew heavier.

  Colby walked up to the set and hit the power button, sending the images of smoke and demonstrators fading suddenly to blackness and letting attentive silence return as he turned to face them. “I’m sure you’re thinking what I’m thinking at this point,” Colby began. “Wondering what kind of craziness we are getting ourselves into.” He saw enough agreement on the faces of his people to know that he had hit the ten-ring. He saw doubt and apprehension, and fear. He also saw determination and even anger, mostly on the faces of those who had made the trip to Baghdad with him once, even twice previously. He saw Jon Anthony to the side toward the back, looking at him with expectation and calm, studied concentration.

  Colby needed to turn this morning into an opportunity, as leaders did, before fear and doubt began to undermine the determination of the people in the room. They were people who would have to support him if he were to succeed.

  He sighed. “In a week, we will be packing to go,” he pointed back at the black screen of the television, “right there. It may well be that the dust will have settled by then. It may get even worse than it is today. We may be waved off altogether. I can’t tell you how that part of it will go. I just know that in my heart, I don’t think that what we’ve seen happen in Iraq today is sustainable. People are people; you’ve heard me say it before. They want the same things that we do, most of them. They want a better life for their kids than they had. They want to raise their families and grow old knowing that they made a difference, that they will leave something that will go on after they’ve gone. It won’t be bombings and bodies and piles of debris.”

  Colby paused, thinking of his own daughters. “People there are going to want peace, because that’s what people everywhere yearn for. They will want stable, predictable government. They are going to want what we can help them build, and we can help them if we don’t give up. If we aren’t scared away and kept from doing what we know that we need to do by the kind of bastards that blew up the Golden Dome last night.”

  He motioned toward one of his analysts. “Carol, you went with me in ‘04. You helped write the table of organization for the local precincts that managed the elections they had there a year ago. You saw what we did, and you know it made a difference.” He saw her straighten, and the hand that had been absent-mindedly providing a knuckle rest for her teeth dropped to her elbow.

  “Andy, you helped get the schools back online as best we could during last year’s trip, and you saw the changes that came about as a result, and I know that you’ve been following them since.” This man, too, straightened, and a renewed look of determination started to glow on his face.

  Colby swept his eyes across the assembled faces again. He was holding ground. “What we’ve done there to date matters. What we are going to do there matters even more, because it means that we haven’t given up. Every one of those things makes us who we are, and what this country is, and they will make Iraq into what the Iraqis want it to be if we don’t give up.”

  His eyes drifted back to Jon, and he was smiling. “I can’t tell you what’s going to happen there tod
ay or tomorrow, or while we’re there. I can only tell you that if we go, we will have the best chance yet to end the kind of thing that CNN will be airing all day today and tomorrow, and for who knows how long this week. It has to end, and when it does end it will because people in Iraq—those everyday folks that live in their heart like you and I—decide that they’ve had enough. When that day comes they will change it themselves.

  “We need to go there. We here in State need to engage the people that steer the thinking in the provinces. We need them to see that we’re not so different, and that we have the resources they need to get themselves to a place that everyone, wherever they are, wants to find himself when he grows old. He wants to be at home with his kids and grandkids around him, not worrying, not dying, not afraid. Iraq can come together or fall apart depending on how that man and the majority of Iraqis come to think of us. I want to help them see us as we are: a nation with incredible energy and incredible talents, and more ability than any other country on the face of this Earth to transplant all those good aspects of our national soul into a new democracy.

  “I know that we have a good plan to make that happen, and I need every one of you to help make that plan work, one increment at a time. Don’t give up. There’s too much work yet to be done, and too much to lose that’s been done already. Lives, treasure, honor … I’m not going to give it all up to some bastards with a truck full of explosives. They haven’t earned it. The Iraqis have, and we have, and we’ll get there together one day, if we don’t give in.”

  Colby started toward the enclosure that made up his corner office. “It’s a new day, just like every day. We can make today, tomorrow, and all this year count. I’m going to start what I can get done today. I know you will too. Thank you for that. I appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine.”

  Jon Anthony watched Colby walk to his office to start his day as did most others. They began moving off to their workspace to do the same. Anthony stood watching them as well. Although more subdued than usual, he heard the normal office chatter begin again. He knew now more than ever that he had made the right decision.