The Shadows of Power Page 6

  His face looked strained. “Come here,” he said, taking her by the arm and walking to stand in the shadow of one of the F/A-18s from another squadron. They were out of view of the rest of the people there for the fly-in. “I owe you an apology. I can’t really explain it, but I think I was afraid you wouldn’t let me do this. I was afraid you’d say no, and my dream would go up in smoke. Because if you said no, and I did it anyway, you’d hate me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that now is the time. We have to decide together if this is what we want. If you want me to stop this process, now is the time. I haven’t gone to any air shows, haven’t really committed myself. We always said we could veto whatever the other one was doing. Well, here it is. Do you want to veto it?”

  She looked up at him. “How bad do you want to do it?”

  “Ever since I saw the Blues fly in Philadelphia at an air show. Since I was ten. It’s what made me choose to fly in the Navy.”

  “What is it about it that’s so attractive?”

  “We’ve talked about this—”

  “I want to hear it again.”

  “I don’t know. It’s sort of like the pinnacle of flying. Flying in the Navy is hard enough, but flying aerobatics in a supersonic jet eighteen inches from five other jets is awesome. It’s just beautiful.”

  “Three hundred days a year?”

  “Yeah. I know. Look, I probably won’t get selected. Like a hundred guys apply.”

  “Right. You’re a famous MiG killer and you’re on the Today show and they’ll turn you down?”

  “Probably.”

  She walked out of the shadow and looked at the people. She thought about their future. She was tired of the Navy life and the strain it put on the family. “If it’s what you really want to do. But frankly, I hope you’re right. I hope you don’t get chosen. But if you do, we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  “Thanks.” Stovic couldn’t believe it. “I don’t really deserve you. I mean that.”

  “After it’s over, we’re going to have to talk about some other dreams in the family. Some that don’t involve you going to sea or being gone all the time.”

  “Fair enough. You have my word.”

  * * *

  “Morning,” Jacobs said to Rat.

  “Morning, sir.” Rat had been paged by Jacobs. Not a page from the SAS head that a mission was on or from the Directorate of Operations that it was time to lock the doors and begin emergency planning for an imminent mission—this was from Jacobs. Sort of a liaison emergency. His first. He was interested to see what Jacobs wanted. Others in the SAS had mentioned that Jacobs was considered an odd duck. He was acknowledged to be brilliant, but he didn’t care much for U.S. law, international law, or general expectations that limited his ability to act against perceived terrorist threats. He was one who always wanted to fight fire with fire because he always knew he could start a bigger fire than any terrorist or organization could ever hope to put together. So Jacobs was admired, but Rat had been cautioned about working with Jacobs too closely. You could get singed.

  This summons had ended in Jacobs’s office, which was big enough for maybe three or, in a pinch, four people. There were six people in the office, including Rat.

  “Since the shoot-down that we watched? We’ve been keeping an eye on developments in Algeria.”

  Rat waited.

  “I assume you have too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Others in Washington are beginning to wonder what the Algerians are up to. They can’t imagine that there will be no response—militarily—to the shoot-down.”

  Rat looked at the others in the room. He didn’t know any of them, and couldn’t imagine why they were there, or why Jacobs hadn’t introduced them.

  “Some believe Algeria is looking for a different kind of response. You’re familiar with the concept of asymmetric warfare?”

  “Sure. You act differently than expected, and not in response to the direct threat. If they’re coming in through the front door with their Army, you go through the back door with your Navy, or send guerrillas to their parents’ house. Something unpredictable and effective.”

  “Exactly. The thought is that Algeria is unable to just let this go. They continue to scream in the media and in the UN—big surprise there—but they haven’t done much other than that.” Jacobs stopped and waited for Rat to respond.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “We’re starting to get a little concerned that Algeria may go the terrorist route.”

  Rat nodded.

  “That’s where you come in. You’ve worked with French counterterrorism units before. Bosnia—” Jacobs stopped, seeing the warning flash in Rat’s eyes. “And other places. Algeria used to be a French colony, obviously. I would wager that the French have much better information than we do, and you’re just the guy to share it.”

  “They probably have some pretty good information. But I’ve been reading some of the reports from Algiers since the shoot-down.” Two of the others in the room looked startled. Why would this operator be reading intelligence files when there was no mission? “I like keeping up with current events,” he said, answering their unspoken question. “And we have some pretty good intelligence ourselves.”

  “Really. What have I missed?” Jacobs asked in an icy tone.

  “We’ve seen a lot of activity in their foreign office. Not with officials but with some people who are known to have contacts with some very bad people.”

  “Right. So what?”

  “So they’re not going to take military action against us. They’d get slaughtered. You think at this point in this War on Terrorism, we wouldn’t love some country to give us a nice focus for all our lingering anger?”

  “Sure. We know all that.”

  “They are clearly going to do something that can’t be traced back to the government. That’s all. They’re talking to people who can make that happen.”

  “And where do you think they’re going to do that?”

  “No way of knowing, based on what I read, but you guys know a lot more than I do.”

  “Are you ready to go to Algeria?”

  “That’s not the way to do this. I don’t think it will be in Algeria.”

  “Where will it be?”

  Rat was frustrated. He was just talking about things he’d been reading. He hadn’t done any hard analysis. That was their job. “I really have no idea.”

  “You willing to get involved if we get an indication?”

  Rat nodded. “Depending on what it is, sure. Of course.”

  “We’ll call you.”

  The escort arrived at 10:00 a.m., just as Dr. Mohammed Nezzar had said, right after the muezzin cried their musical prayers from the tops of the minarets through the powerful speakers that projected over the entire city. Ismael had donned traditional Algerian clothing, leaving his Tommy jeans in his bedroom. The Algerian dust and fine sand on his feet from wearing sandals pleased him. He hadn’t washed his feet since returning home. It was how he wanted to be for his brother’s funeral, how he always was during his youth.

  His father opened the front door of the house. More than a hundred people waited in the street. A crowd was building fast. They all wanted to show their sympathy and anger. It wasn’t to be an escort so much as it was a processional, a mass of support that would walk from the dead pilot’s home to the place of the funeral to exemplify to the world the great loss they had all suffered.

  Ismael squinted as he stepped out into the sunny street behind his mother, the official focus of grieving. He saw for the first time several bearded young men who were carrying a coffin over their heads, the coffin that was going to be carried behind the grieving family through the streets of Algiers. To Ismael the empty coffin renewed his pain over the idea of his brother’s body somewhere at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

  As they stepped into the street, the throng made way for the mullahs and the f
amily to head the procession. The group behind them swelled as people poured out of every house and building to join them. They moved as one, a sea of grieving, suffering, wailing humanity, toward the mosque.

  The men carrying the casket began shouting out for mercy, for justice, and for revenge. They shouted prayers and expressions of grief in Arabic, with a few crying out in French. Ismael balked as clerics grabbed each of his arms to walk with him, to escort him as part of the family. As his father had predicted, Chakib had become a symbol for all of Algeria.

  The group became a mob, crying and yelling, turning on the United States as the focus of their grief. The numbers grew to a thousand, then ten thousand, as they rolled toward the city square, then fifty thousand. Thousands more walked parallel to them in the streets several blocks away. Whenever they came to an intersection, Ismael could see thousands more people in both directions heading the same way as the family and the casket.

  The raw emotion of the event began to penetrate Ismael’s hardened exterior as the sounds came from everywhere. He felt the buoyant strength of the thousands around him. It was a feeling he had never experienced. He felt as if they could do anything—tear down a building or overthrow the government. If the Americans were here, they would suffer the wrath of these Algerians for killing one of their sons. For the first time in a long time, Ismael was proud to be Algerian.

  The clerics arrived at the mosque. As soon as they were in place, the mullah began the amplified prayers of the funeral, familiar to all Muslims.

  Ismael was moved. He fought back tears as the mullah explained life and death and how we control neither. He gave thanks to Allah for the life of Chakib Nezzar and all that he had been able to accomplish. He grieved for the family, for the entire city and country, and, to Ismael’s surprise, for the wife and children Chakib would never have.

  As he sniffed hard to fight his emotions, Ismael raised his head up and saw a television camera perched on the wall of a building to his left. Just under the camera was a small sign that said cnn. He was surprised they identified themselves at all. An American company was not welcome in Algeria. This crowd, raging over the shoot-down of his brother, could easily turn on whatever American symbol it could find to demonstrate the anger smoldering in the city over Chakib’s death. But perhaps they wanted America to see how deeply they felt the loss of one of their sons. Ismael tried to get CNN out of his mind. He tried to get America out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted only to listen to the prayers and think of his brother.

  Later, as he stepped back into his parents’ house, he couldn’t even remember the rest of the funeral. It was all a dream, a flowing, noisy, confusing sea of moving people, sounds, and emotions. He recalled only finding himself back at his family’s house surrounded by well-wishers, both those he knew and the hundreds he didn’t know who stood outside the house in something like a vigil, watching for them, supporting them, praying for them, and offering to do anything for the family. It was a show of support he never expected.

  The food flowed freely. Ismael sat on the steps to the second floor of the house. His pain was deeper than he expected as he contemplated a future without his best friend. He was suddenly aware that someone was sitting next to him on the tile step. It was a pilot from Chakib’s squadron. He was in the dress uniform he had worn to the funeral.

  The pilot spoke to him. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Raid Hamid Saadi—”

  “I know,” Ismael said, remembering him from the one time he had visited his brother’s squadron. Hamid had made an impression on him as being full of bluster and self-importance, two personal qualities that caused Ismael to instantly dislike someone. He had a twisted ability to remember those he disliked.

  “I speak for the rest of the pilots in the squadron when I tell you how sorry we are for the loss of your brother. We miss him terribly and want to extend to you our condolences. We pray that Allah gives you comfort, and that someday, Allah gives you vengeance.”

  Ismael looked at the pilot and didn’t say anything.

  Hamid leaned over slightly to look up at Ismael’s face. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you accept our condolences, for you and for your family?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you.”

  “Your brother thought very highly of you.”

  Ismael blinked and looked around the crowded room full of women preparing food and men eating it. “How do you know that?”

  “He spoke of you often.”

  Ismael took a drink from the cup he was holding. “What was he doing over the Mediterranean?”

  Hamid lowered his head, ashamed he had to tell the story again, and this time to the brother of his wingman. “We were just going to fly by the American spy plane, then fly over the carrier to take pictures—”

  “Then why have missiles?”

  “In case we were attacked!” the pilot said, biting the air, keeping his voice low to avoid the looks that would come their way if he didn’t.

  “You fired first,” Ismael said softly.

  “Why do you say such things?”

  “I saw the film from the American jets.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot. You are living in Washington, in America. You are still a student.”

  “I saw it.”

  “It was an error. The missile came off my plane as an accident. It is clear to anyone watching it carefully.” The pilot hesitated. “And he is the one they shot down. If they thought I had fired at them, they would have fired at me. I would have gladly taken that missile for your brother.”

  Ismael could hear the guilt. Hamid had screwed up, and it had cost his brother his life.

  “The Americans were waiting for us. They were going to attack us under some pretext. They were lying in wait for us, hidden under the wings of the spy plane that was flying in our airspace!”

  Ismael didn’t respond.

  The pilot moved even closer to him. “I have said what I came to say. I am sorry that you are angry. I too am angry, angry at the United States and their Navy, which violates our airspace and our territorial waters. I am angry at their hair-trigger attack on us, and that your brother was killed.” He stood up and walked down the three steps. His face was again level with Ismael’s. “If I or anyone else at the squadron can do anything for you or your family, please let me know.” He waited for a reply but quickly realized Ismael wasn’t even going to look at him. He turned quickly and moved to a group of men who were standing near the kitchen. He smiled and joined their discussion seamlessly.

  Ismael lifted his head and watched the group from above. He knew many of them, but they were obviously afraid to approach him. He guessed that the fury he felt in his heart was showing on his face. He needed to get out of the house, to the shade in the dirt street behind the house where he and Chakib had kicked a soccer ball to each other and against the back of the house in spite of their mother’s complaining of the noise and damage to the wall.

  He stepped out of the sweltering room full of mourners into the still sunny street. Two men who had been leaning on the side of the house watched him come outside. They looked at each other and watched carefully where he was going. He turned and headed down the side street in the shadow of his father’s house. They followed him. He walked back and forth for two or three turns lost in thought, then felt their eyes on him. He stopped and turned toward them. They were leaning on the back of the house across the narrow alley. He knew them instantly. “Madani,” he said, his tone revealing only recognition. “Khalida.”

  Madani spoke. “We share your grief for your brother.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “As I said—”

  “We both know better,” Ismael said.

  “We have missed you,” Khalida said menacingly.

  “It has been, what?” Ismael said, looking at Khalida. “Three years?”

  “Maybe four, or even five,” he replied.

 
; Madani smiled and pushed away from the building to walk closer to Ismael, who stood motionless in the middle of the dusty street. They stood two feet apart, close enough so that no one could hear their conversation. Madani’s smile faded. “You were one of the best. You excelled at the training. Firearms, explosives, electronics, everything. You are a natural. We needed your skills. Of all of us, you were the brightest. The one who could make a difference. And you walked away.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Madani was about to respond when he noticed two women in conversation coming down the alley carrying baskets of bread. He looked at them suspiciously. One of them glanced at him and, seeing that he was looking at her, quickly looked away. He waited until they were out of earshot and continued. “Why? Why not stay with us? Why leave us at such a critical time?”

  Ismael spoke as he saw the women over Madani’s shoulder. One of them turned her head to look at him, as if in wonder at why the conversation had stopped simply because of their presence. “I sickened of killing people with whom I had no quarrel,” he hissed. “You killed randomly—”

  “To sow fear throughout the country, as a warning!”

  “I have no problem killing enemies. But I couldn’t attack our own villages because someone believed they were not loyal to something they’d never heard of!”

  “But what now? What about our enemies? Who is to defend Algeria? Even now the Americans provoke us, kill your brother. We cannot fight them on their terms.”

  Ismael turned away and headed back toward the house.

  Madani grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. “You must listen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t know what I have to say yet.”

  “I’ve heard enough of what you have to say.” Ismael was fighting the images that were flooding back into his head. In his youth he had been lured into a zealous Islamic group that fought for the overthrow of the secular state of Algeria. It had been his chance to express himself, to find himself, to use weapons and feel very powerful. His parents had no idea. He spent much of his free time training with them, learning weapons, tactics, electronics, explosives, everything, all for the day when they would challenge the rulers of the country. But Ismael had quit. Or at least those at Madani’s level within the group thought he had quit. In fact, his intellectual abilities had been recognized, and it was quickly acknowledged that using him to attack people with a rifle was foolish. He needed to be trained and used at a much higher level. It was for that purpose that some had been able to maneuver him into a position, even in the old regime, to obtain a scholarship to attend college in the United States and study electrical engineering. He had been there for three years on a student visa, attending classes and acting like the student he was. Even with the new scrutiny on student visas under the American War on Terrorism, the Americans had left him alone.