DEEP in these remote caverns, the air was humid and somehow denser than out in the open. Water dripped. Echoes reverberated. Lanterns hissed, radiating light the color of copal. A fire crackled in a groove in the wall, sending aromatic smoke eddying toward where bats twittered and squeaked far above. A shortwave radio ranted, turned down until it was barely audible. Worn carpets and low tables of rough wood were scattered across the eroded limestone floor. Ancient Buddhas lay shattered, faces gouged away. Wall engravings were scarred by bullets. A crushed mass of ancient parchment shoaled the corners. Black banners hung behind a stone lectern, and a battered scimitar leaned against it.
Once Teddy Oberg had been judged from that lectern. Now he led hundreds of fighters, and unnumbered thousands followed his bidding throughout western China.
Yet not without opposition.
“Chai,” a girl whispered behind the seated men. Brass tinkled as she set down a tray. Barefoot, she was sheathed from crown to dirty toes in black cloth, save for a slit for her eyes. One of the Han taken at Kanayi. She was slight, frightened, twelve or thirteen. Teddy had never asked her real name. He called her Dandan, after an earlier girl slave. As he’d trained her, she poured a cup for herself first, from the same pot, and drank it off. Stood trembling, holding her hand to her no-doubt-scalded mouth.
Teddy stroked his beard, fondling her absently from behind with the other hand. After some moments he pushed her away, leaned in and took one of the tiny blazing-hot turned-brass cups, holding it with the tips of gloved fingers. Despite the fire the air in the cave was close to freezing. Guldulla—“Tokarev”—sat to his right, his breath a white plume. Nasrullah, their spymaster, squatted to Teddy’s left.
“Report,” Teddy said.
Nasrullah gestured to a young Uighur who sat a few feet away, legs crossed, cradling a small coffer. He set it in front of Teddy. Accepted a teacup, yet did not sip. He stared at them with wide eyes.
“Tell the Lingxiù what happened,” the spymaster prompted.
The muj cleared his throat. He spoke in Uighur, which Teddy could follow by now, though he didn’t speak it fluently. “Respected sir. The governor was well protected. Bodyguards. Escorts, when he traveled in his car. Guards outside his home. We observed for many days. Then a friend told us to watch the side of his office in the city. The exit the workers use, those who clean up and serve the meals for the officials.
“He left by that back gate and we followed. Once or twice a week he leaves the office in mid-afternoon to visit a widow who runs a duoba shop. She locks up and they go into the back.”
Teddy nodded. Duobas were the traditional embroidered Uighur hats. He reached for a pot of honey and stirred some into the aromatic chai. It was a green tea, from Jiangxi.
“We promised her life and those of her children if she cooperated. She wept but agreed. We remained in the back room until he visited again. She rang a bell to warn us. When he came in, we were ready.”
The boy presented a cheap phone and thumbed up a photograph. The severed head had a startled expression. Blood surrounded it on a rumpled-up pink bedspread.
“What did you do with it?” Oberg muttered.
“Displayed it in the marketplace. Later the Han troops came and removed it. But by then many had seen.”
“And the widow?”
“Killed, with her children. As collaborators. Also displayed in the market.”
“You have done well,” Teddy told him. He reached into his vest, into the hidden pocket beside the holstered Makarov with the safety off. He counted five shining Krugerrands onto the carpet. Each was worth twice the annual income of an average worker. The boy gawked down at them.
“Share them with your comrades, the brave mujahideen of Urumqi. Tell them your leaders are generous. Tell them they have served their people well.” Teddy waved to the guards standing a few paces off. “Go now. Rest, eat, and receive more of the rewards ITIM reserves for the bravest of its fighters.” The boy bowed and got up, leaving the box in front of Teddy. Teddy flicked a finger at it, but didn’t touch it. Dandan came forward from the shadows, and spirited it away as Nasrullah beckoned to the next man in line.
One after the other, their agents reported assassinations, car bombings, suicide-vest attacks against the government and those who collaborated. Others reported on ITIM’s self-financing efforts, primarily moving high-value low-bulk Afghan exports down into the lowlands. Some of the spies arrived coughing. They reported sickness in the towns. Deaths. But also a heavier Internal Security presence, with patrols, roving drones, and counterassassinations. Prominent Uighur lawyers, doctors, and clerics had been rounded up and sent east.
Teddy nodded grimly, knowing what that meant. Camp 576, where he himself had toiled and nearly starved.
The audience ended. Teddy grunted, hoisting himself awkwardly from the cushioned nook where he usually sat, his back to the cave wall. His injured leg flamed. He eased it within the brace, stretching the warped muscles and pain-racked tendons until they cracked. He limped back and forth, shaking it off. He’d have to sit again in a few hours, for the talk with the leadership. Then again that afternoon, when their CIA contact arrived.
But first they had to get a few things straightened out.
IMAM Akhmad’s white beard fell to his waist. The end lay curled in his lap. The old man’s eyes were cloudy, but cataracts didn’t seem to keep him from reading the Koran. Or maybe he’d memorized it by now. He must have learned it from some local cleric in his youth; his Arabic pronunciation was worse than Teddy’s. Never spry since Oberg had known him, over the last year he’d grown feeble. Slaves had to support him when he tottered about. These days he seldom left his side cavern, and spent long periods of time alone praying, or maybe just staring at the stained walls in the flickering light of a single candle.
Now the old man welcomed them to his retreat with a graceful flexing of long fingers. “Come to me, my sons,” he mumbled through a toothless mouth, coughing. His left hand was tucked under his robe. His right groped toward a dish of qiegao: slices of a cake made of stewed sugar, minced nuts, dates, raisins, and figs. Akhmad seemed to live on candy: chocolates, White Rabbit milk candies, sugared fruit, puddings, all prepared for him by his slaves.
Before Teddy could react, Qurban, the former al-Qaeda chief, settled himself at the right hand of the sheykh. They faced Teddy, Nasrullah, and Tokarev across the desserts and an ornate little samovar which bubbled over a Sterno flame.
Okay, round one to Qurban. Teddy handed the imam the box the assassin had given him. Dandan had cautiously opened it to reveal neat rows of Chinese chocolates in gold foil. The old man smiled, but set it aside. They chatted, Teddy restraining his impatience. The elder had to broach the conversation first.
“What brings my sons to visit an old man?” the imam finally muttered, wiping his nose on a stained sleeve.
Guldulla said respectfully, “Reverend Sheykh, events are pressing. We must discuss our leadership before the American arrives.”
He blinked at Teddy. “But al-Amriki is already with us.”
“We mean, the American from outside,” Qurban put in.
The old imam blinked again, looking blank. Was he out of it? Going gaga?
Teddy, Guldulla, and Qurban were currently sharing the leadership, in an uneasy triumvirate led, or rather figureheaded, by the old imam. A respectable Islamic insurgency had to be headed by a cleric. Unfortunately, the sheykh seemed to be losing his grip.
Teddy watched Qurban’s hands as he passed tea around. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t slipped anything into it. As they sipped, Nasrullah presented the news from the lowlands. The authorities were responding to the massacre, and the rising insurgency, by prohibiting prayer other than in approved mosques, prosecuting those who wore beards and veils, and dissolving those madrassas that did not slavishly follow Beijing’s line.
“This is very evil of them,” Akhmad mumbled, fumbling in the dish for another slice of the sweet cake.
Nasrullah said humbly, “It is not all the evil they have done. Marshal Chagatai has ordered in another interior security division from Hong Kong.”
“Chagatai…” the old man’s voice trailed off.
Tokarev said, “The general who shot a thousand people in Hong Kong. He is an Uighur, but he kowtows to the Hans.”
The old man bobbled his head, but his beatific expression didn’t change. Nasrullah went on. “He has begun roundups and mass executions. There are rumors chemical weapons were dropped on Kanayi, which is being called Town of the Dead.”
The old man mumbled, “Kanayi…”
“Where we raided, and punished the Han,” Teddy supplied.
The old guy didn’t seem to be following the conversation. Actually, he seemed much more interested in his snack.
Qurban cleared his throat. “Revered Sheykh, may this humble one contribute?” After a moment the former al-Qaeda fighter spread his hands. He said in flawless classical Arabic, “Honored sir, forgive my forwardness. No more than al-Amriki al-Oberg, am I one of your clan. Yet long have I fought on the side of the Faithful. Multitudes have fallen around me. Still, by the will of Allah, Blessed be his name—”
All four men mumbled, “Blessed be his name.”
“—by His will alone, have I survived to carry on the struggle. I have not the military training of our American friend.” He nodded to Teddy, smiling. “Nor can I merit the confidence you repose in your fellow tribesmen, the brave Guldulla called Tokarev and the cunning Nasrullah who carries our message to the people.
“Nevertheless, I have seen great movements defeated before. They never completely die, as they are dedicated to the Faith. But they suffer setbacks. Become complacent. And sometimes are betrayed, by members who appear as stone but are merely salt within.”
He didn’t so much as glance at Teddy, but Oberg tensed. What kind of treacherous, underhanded shit was this asshole up to?
“I fear we are at the crossroads of decision. The Han have a Final Solution in sight for the Turkic peoples. Beijing is growing desperate. This Chagatai arrives with hands dripping with blood. We must take measures.”
He paused, and they all looked to Akhmad. Who sopped up a bit of sweet sauce, sucked on his fingers, and gazed over their heads. Finally he mumbled, “What is it that you propose, Hajji al-Nashiri?”
“Honored Sheykh, far be it from me to suggest guidance.”
“Please, go ahead,” Teddy broke in. In Arabic, just to remind everyone Qurban wasn’t the only guy around who could rattle it off. Plus, his ass was going numb on the thin blanket. Nothing under it but wet rock, if the seeping dampness was any clue. Drink tea, chat, drink more tea … being a rebel and a guerrilla wasn’t a bad gig, but this part sucked.
Qurban nodded. “Two things must be done. First, this marshal must die. If our clever friend here,” he nodded to Nasrullah, “can arrange the assassination of a governor, surely he can give death to this bloody general.”
The old man held up his cup. Above them bats twittered. A dollop of dung splattered down onto the blanket. A slave reached to brush it away. Another refreshed the sheykh’s tea.
“And the second?” Guldulla prompted, when the old man didn’t answer.
“We must recast the mission of ITIM,” Qurban said. He stroked a gray beard, shorter than Akhmad’s, but longer than Teddy’s. “So far we have been promoting a political, democratic, secular rebellion. I understand that the Independent Turkistan Islamic Movement revives the name of an earlier resistance. I also understand its promise—to unite all the Turkic peoples. Not just from China, but from Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan. Yes. That is a powerful message.
“But we must be realistic. It must change.”
“To what?” Teddy said, but he knew the answer.
“It is simple. We must pronounce jihad. Turn this rebellion into a sacred battle, of the Faithful against the godless. This will unite us with the fighting House of Islam throughout the world.”
“Daesh, al-Qaeda, Boko Haram,” Teddy said. “You mean, like them?”
Qurban turned a gentle smile to him. He said politely, “The one you call The Sacrifice has fought under many banners. Yet it is always the same banner. Nothing must be exalted over Islam. We must fulfill Allah’s will as revealed by the Prophet, blessed be his name. We will bring all the faithful of the world under the sacred law. We will subject the polytheists to obedience and destroy the atheists and idolators. Is this not how you, honored Sheykh, have governed your fighters?”
Addressed directly, Akhmad merely belched and closed his eyes.
“I will speak, if that is agreeable,” Teddy said. Guldulla and Nasrullah nodded; the old sheykh looked away; Qurban smiled.
“I am not saying the hajji is wrong. His first suggestion, the assassination of the marshal, is good. Removing this devil will strike fear into the Han, that such a high one can fall, like the shattered idols in our cave.
“But pronouncing jihad … this is a different matter. It detaches us from many supporters in the urban areas. Those who hate the Han, but who are educated. The merchants. It places us in company with some whom even much of the Umma abhors. I fear most of all that it may cost us the support of America. Where most of our weapons and ammunition, as well as other supplies, originate.”
He stroked his beard. Just like one of them … “I am open to reason, and to the sheykh’s command. Whatever he decides, that will I execute. But I warn against this second step. I warn against it most sincerely.”
The imam looked at Nasrullah, who turned his hands upward, abstaining. At Guldulla. Who hesitated, smoothing his mustache. But who finally shook his head. “There are good arguments on both sides. This matter merits more thought. But as Qurban and the Lingxiù both have said, it is for the sheykh to decide.”
Akhmad closed his eyes. With an audible spatter, another donation from the bats hit the hem of his coat. A slave mopped at it, but the old man didn’t seem to notice.
When he opened his eyes again, they were clouded, rheumy, but seemed to see beyond the cavern, beyond the mountains. Maybe, all the way to the Seventh Heaven. He patted each of their knees in turn. Smacked his lips, and reached for another sweet. Masticated it, while a little drool stained his beard.
Finally he murmured, “I agree with noble Guldulla. This merits thought. I will ponder all you have said. May Allah grant me wisdom. Go in peace.” He waved a flaccid hand, and one after the other the men in front of him rose, and bowed, and left the cavern.
“VLADIMIR” arrived that afternoon, on a donkey, with an escort of mujahideen and pack mules. Nasrullah patted him down and relieved him of his pistol.
The Agency field officer had Slavic cheekbones and a nose like a thin-blade knife. His short beard was black. His hooded eyes were bloodshot from the altitude. He stripped off a heavy greatcoat and insulated gloves to reveal a tactical vest, a maroon turtleneck, and a now empty holster.
They shook hands as Teddy tried to reorient his brain to English. It seemed to have left his skull, to no longer reside on his hard drive. Finally he managed, “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too, Teddy.”
“Vladimir” was a cover name, of course. He said he’d been a Ranger before joining the CIA. Teddy didn’t know his real one, though the guy seemed to know everything about him. From his Team files, of course. Plus records of his other missions.
Which all seemed so long ago … like the movie he’d never made, back in LA.
Vladimir jerked a thumb at one of the mujs, and they began wrestling crates off the mules. A crowbar was applied to wood, and with considerably splintering and banging a green-wrapped bundle emerged.
Teddy cradled the rifle, running his gaze up and down the stock. “M40.”
“Marines were getting rid of them. I put in for five for your snipers.”
“Optics?”
“In the side compartment.”
“Yeah, this’ll reach out and touch ’em. What else you got?”
“Ammo. Stingers. Batteries, night vision, flu meds.”
“Meds, excellent. We’ve had a shitload of sick lately.”
“This stuff should help. Experimental. The latest and greatest. But keep close tabs on it. We wouldn’t want this to get to the Hans.”
Teddy said he copied that, and that they might as well go on up to the cave.
THE agent looked keenly about as they threaded the men sitting on the stone floors. Some were cleaning rifles. Others swayed and chanted: a Koran class. And some were sleeping, arms thrown over their faces; come in from guard duty in the surrounding mountains.
Teddy bent double and scuttled into the side cave reserved for him. A tight little space, but with only one entrance he felt more secure when he slept. Dandan bustled about as they settled on carpets. He snapped, “Chai. Choy va nonni olib kelish.” She bowed and withdrew.
Vladimir’s gaze followed her. “That’s a different kid, isn’t it? What happened to, um, Dandan?”
“Fell off a rope bridge in the mountains. But you can call her Dandan too.”
“I see. How old’s this one?”
“Fuck if I know. Who gives a crap?” Hey, he was remembering. At least, how to flip somebody off in good old American.
Vladimir said mildly, “Just making conversation. And how’s the imam? Akhmad?”
“He’s … getting on. But still on top of things.” A white lie, maybe, but why rock the boat. Especially when Mr. al-Qaeda was angling to be next in line. “Okay, enough foreplay. Let’s talk about what you can do for me.”
“What I can do you for right now was on those fucking donkeys. But I’ve got a message you need to hear.”
Dandan set down the tea tray. Teddy waited while she poured herself a cup and sipped it. He eased his bad leg out in front of him and poured a cup for the Ranger, then for himself. Though he didn’t touch his own, having drunk more than enough tea during the sit-downs that morning. “Shoot.”
“That reminds me,” the agent said, “how about we start by getting me my Glock back?”
“Soon’s we’re done here. So what do I ‘need to hear’?”
Vladimir looked grave. He tapped the Bukhara between them with a gloved finger. “This is from up top. You have to cut back on targeting civilians. The IEDs are okay. The assassinations of cooperators—we never knew about that. But the massacre in the town, the Agency disavows.”
Teddy cracked his knuckles, getting angry. WTF, over? “Disavow. What the fuck’s that mean? Besides, that wasn’t us. That was the townspeople, taking their revenge. But, shit, wasn’t that what you tasked me with? Pull the Internal Security divisions west? Well, another one just got ordered in.”
The agent nodded. “And that’s appreciated. But nothing like Kanayi ever again. Copy? Your insurgency’s growing. Hurting Beijing. But it can blow back on the Allies, if the news gets out we’re promoting ethnic cleansing. I need a roger. This is serious, Ted.”
Teddy nodded. “Message received. But we’re getting pressured out here. Do you know what the Han are doing? They’ve installed facial recognition systems throughout Xinjiang. Tracking the native Uighurs. Public spaces. Markets. Roads. When they spot a suspect on a facial match, they raid at night and shoot his family. Not even a summary trial, they just leave them in the house for the neighbors to clean up.
“The latest is they’ve sent out some hot-shit, hell-raiser new general.”
“Chagatai,” Vladimir put in.
“You know?”
“Marshal Chagatai claims descent from the Mongol Khans. He was in charge of restoring ‘law and order’ in Hong Kong. We don’t have hard numbers, but probably over twenty thousand dead.”
Teddy nodded slowly. A serious opponent, then. Despite what some liked to believe, sometimes ruthless repression, the mass infliction of sheer terror, actually tamped down a rebellion, if carried out thoroughly enough. “Uh, we got reports of gas being used on one of the Uighur towns. Possibly, Kanayi itself. To punish residents for massacring their Han neighbors, I guess.”
“That’s not the only bad news, I’m afraid. Have you seen any patrols, any drones up here?”
Teddy shrugged. “Just the usual sweeps. So far we haven’t been targeted. Why?”
Vlad told him that the Hunza, the tribe downhill and west, had been bought off and turned against the Allies. “By the Iranians. An offer they couldn’t refuse. So now they’ll be pushing up along the road from Azad Kashmir into your territory.”
Teddy reflected dourly on this. So ITIM would be pincered, with enemies on both sides. Then did a double take. “Wait a minute. So how’d you get here? If the Hunza just flipped?”
The operative just rubbed thumb and index finger together, in the universal symbol for a payoff.
Teddy thought aloud, trying to remember his insurgency doctrine. “Okay, then, we’re being isolated. We get boxed in, surrounded, they’re gonna localize us. Then drop some big bunker-buster and bang, we’re history.
“That means we need to get out of here. And not just to another hole in the wall. We need to go to the next stage.”
“Mao’s three phases?”
“We already did the base area phase. Now we need to expand. Go to the cities, or maybe, in this case, the hamlets. Gather popular support, which shouldn’t be too tough, considering how hard the Han’s cracking down. Then, take on larger units. Build this to a full-scale rebellion, with forces down in the lowlands taking territory.”
“Fine. You want to grow this thing, we’re ready. More gold. More weapons. What else?”
Teddy eased his leg again, wondering if he should run Qurban’s proposal past him. Jettison the ITIM idea, uniting the Islamisists and the secular rebels, and go straight to hard-core jihad. But he didn’t think it would go over very well. Not after how that strategy had played out in Afghanistan.
“Deep thoughts?” The agent helped himself to a cookie.
“Forget it … If what you’re saying about the Hunza, they’re gonna outnumber us. And they know where we are. Remember, you brought those two guys here. Leonardo and what’s-his-name.”
“True.” Vladimir nodded. “A mistake, in retrospect.”
“So we’re gonna have to vacate the premises. Relocate.”
“Okay. To where?”
“Due respect, but let me think about that. I prepped two other caves as hide sites, but like I say, we need to get out in the population.” Teddy pondered a little longer, then added, “but if we gotta leave here … maybe we can exact a price.”
The agent cocked his head. “How so?”
“Need to think about it some more … maybe, some kind of ambush.”
They plotted over tea and cookies, and came up with the beginnings of a plan. The rebels would set up a false-flag IED school in the valley. Nasrullah would put out the word through his contacts that they needed recruits to build devices. But some he would involve would be known enemy collaborators. Instead of executing them, ITIM would employ them as channels to feed false information to the Chinese.
Teddy liked the idea. “With luck, we could tempt this Chagatai in. He’s under pressure from Beijing to close down the insurgency. How could he resist being in at the kill?”
“Maybe. Considering his profile. He’s a take-charge leader. Executes people himself.”
“My kind of guy.” Teddy gave it a beat, then grinned.
The other smiled back, but reluctantly. “Okay, so you get him here. Then what?”
“We blow the cave. The whole fucking complex. A massive charge up there with the bats. They’ll be sweeping for radio detonation, so we leave a suicider behind to fire it. Blow the whole thing down on him. Meanwhile we scatter, setting up cells to spread the insurgency.”
Vladimir nodded slowly. “We could get behind that.”
“Can you get us four, five hundred kilos of C-4?”
“You’d have to promise positive control. We don’t want this stuff getting into the wrong hands.”
Teddy nodded. Just what the guy had to say to satisfy the legal beagles down the line when, inevitably, some ended up blowing up somebody who at the particular moment wasn’t on the target list. Or mowed down a bunch of civilians in a truck bomb. But there was no way to infuse weapons and explosives into a war and not have some go adrift. Hell, even some SEAL units had had guys stealing shit, C-4 and radios and goggles. “Absolutely. Lock and key. Mission checkout only.”
The agent stretched. He got up, bent over to avoid the low ceiling, and smiled. “How about me seeing the sheykh now?”
Teddy got up too. “I think he’s at prayer, but I’ll check.”
Vladimir halted in the exitway. “Oh. Before I forget. A message from your old girlfriend.”
“My … girlfriend?” Was this code for…? “What girlfriend?”
“In San Diego. Didn’t you have somebody there?”
He remembered then.
Mulvaney’s Gingernut, a fake-Irish pub across from the Del Coronado. A sign out front: Why do they call it tourist season if we can’t shoot them? Nothing to show it was a Team hangout, unless you counted the Harleys and jacked Jeeps and even the odd full-sized Hummer.
The bar had smelled like beer and corned beef and hot grease. It was full, SEALs, old-fart retirees, Viet vets, and people who came in to tour the zoo. A lot of women. Frog hogs, the operators called them. In a way it was annoying. On the other, wasn’t it what every man wanted?
On the back patio, drinking what he’d promised himself would be his last Harp before getting back to the base. The late afternoon sun falling through the trees, warming his face as he lifted it, seeing only blood red through closed eyelids.
She’d spoken first. “Fresh meat,” her opening words to him.
Muscular thighs, slim waist, the hard core muscle of her torso. Dark hair. Tight jeans-clad legs wrapped around the base of the stool. A bulge under her left armpit that wasn’t tit.
Salena Frank had been with the sheriff’s department in Vista. A smile that made you see what she must have looked like as a little girl in braids. And later, her drunken blond friend fingering herself in the bed next to them. And the pink plastic toy rabbit she’d handed him after. Telling him he was now an official San Diego Sheriff’s Department badge bunny.
It all seemed so long ago and so … American. “We didn’t actually have anything going,” he told the agent. “A one-night stand.”
“Didn’t sound like it, from what she said.”
“I already told her the guy she knew is dead.”
“She doesn’t seem to think so.” Vladimir took a worn, creased envelope out of his tactical vest, and handed it over.
THE old man’s guard confirmed he was asleep. “Let’s get you settled in,” Teddy told the agent, and led him to the guest quarters, which was a down bag in a side cave. A blanket served as a curtain, with a rug for prayer. A plastic bucket for piss and two bottles of drinking water completed the furnishings.
“I’m gonna have one of my own guys sleep outside. Oh, and here’s your Glock back.” He handed the weapon over butt first.
Vlad surveyed the room. “Rough, but I’ve slept rougher.”
“We can provide some comforts.” Teddy beckoned a dark-clad figure from behind him. Her thin fingers were locked in front of her. Her downcast eyes were the only part of her visible through the black chador. “Loula’ll keep you warm. Got smoke, too, if you want to try a pipe. From Helmand.”
The agent passed on the opium, but without a word gestured the girl over to his sleeping bag.
Teddy went outside. He sat on a rump-worn rock near the entrance, close enough he could duck in if they got a drone warning. He fingered the envelope thoughtfully.
Back then he’d wanted to make movies. Then the world had gone to hell, and since then he’d been sucked into one hot spot after another. Until the raid, and the capture, then torture and prison camp … Yeah, a lot of rapids under the bridge.
Over time, you changed. And remembering what he’d thought before was important, and cool, and would make him happy … made it all seem … pretty fucking shallow and pointless. So what if A Teddy Oberg Production was projected for a second on a big screen? So what the fucking fuck?
He’d had a vision, on a mountain.
Since then, nothing had been the same.
Now he served Allah. And was in turn served, by his mujahideen. And slaves. Like Dandan and Loula.
But he was still making movies. Sort of. In a way.
There was a hidden camera in the side cave. When the agent left, Teddy would retrieve it himself. Just for leverage, either with the Agency or Vlad personally, in case he ever needed it.
Espionage and guerrilla warfare weren’t about playing fair.
He toyed with the still sealed envelope for a few minutes, then finally limped inside again. The fire was glowing coals. He threw on a few more sticks—wood was scarce in the mountains, and had to be husbanded—and laid the envelope on them. It smoked. The edges curled up, turning brown. Writing showed for a moment through the crisping paper. Then the rectangle burst into flame.
He watched it burn until it was nothing but crumbling char.
ONE of his mujs found him outside sometime later, in the dark. “Al-Amriki!”
“Do not call me that,” he told the man in Uighur. “I have said before, I am one of you now. The only American here is the one asleep inside.”
But the man only waved him to silence. “Come quickly. Sir. It is the sheykh.”
When he got to the old man’s cavern he had to push his way through the throng. Guldulla was standing over the imam, holding a hissing gasoline lantern. The sheykh’s slaves were crouched a few paces away, trembling, hiding their faces. A guard stood over them with an AK.
Teddy bent over the old cleric. Those rheumy eyes stared up sightless now. The dirty hand was still outstretched toward the dish. He felt for a pulse in the neck. Behind him, someone murmured. He ignored it. Probed again. Nothing. The skin was already cold.
He straightened, and murmured, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun.”
To Allah we belong, to Him we return. The murmuring grew. Teddy glanced around at them, and that silenced it. Mostly. “What happened, Tokarev?”
“As you see,” Guldulla said. He gestured at the candy, at a teacup that lay on its side, at the brass pot. Teddy bent to peer into it. Empty.
They had to cajole the elder woman to talk. Teddy was surprised to learn she wasn’t a slave, as he’d assumed, but an Uighur, and the old man’s lawful wife. Apparently the only one, though he could have had as many as he liked.
The younger, of course, really was a slave. The older woman suddenly began cuffing her, screaming at her. The young woman cowered silently, head shielded beneath a black-clothed sleeve.
“Someone must die for this outrage,” said Qurban, appearing almost magically from the crowd, which edged apart to give him space. “Who has done this? Someone must die.”
Teddy caught sight of Vladimir, at the back. He beamed him a scowl, hoping he got the message. Get out of sight. Don’t get mixed up in this.
“The sheykh was very old,” Teddy said.
“It was the sweets,” the hajji persisted. “Do you not see? He died pointing to them.” The crowd murmured, passing the observation from mouth to mouth. “Either in the Han chocolates, or the qiegao. Or perhaps the tea.”
Teddy ruminated, stroking his beard. It could have been poison. A quick-acting one. But the question of murder or old age was secondary. Just now the rebels were looking to him and Guldulla. But if they didn’t act, the al-Qaeda zealot would take over. He was already muttering to certain young men in the crowd. Voices were rising, dissatisfied, suspicious.
“The young slave,” Teddy pronounced. The crowd quieted. “Her name?”
“The Han she-dog is called Bubu,” the wife spat. “Kill her!”
Teddy picked up the dish. Silently, he held it out to to the girl. She stared at it, horrified. He shook it, offering it as to a dog. “Názhe ta. Chile ta,” he said.
Take it. Eat.
She stared around again, terrified, then understood. She grabbed the dish and began stuffing candies under her niqab. The crowd murmured. Teddy seized her face scarf and threw it back. Chocolate stained her lips. Brown eyes blinked fearfully. Then closed as she reached for another handful.
When the dish was empty she covered her face again and stepped back. The crowd sighed. Teddy shook off his sleeve and ostentatiously consulted his watch. Minutes went by. The girl stood erect. Still trembling, but erect.
“How do you feel?” he asked her at last.
“I am perfectly fine. I did not poison him,” the girl muttered through clenched teeth.
“There was no poison,” Teddy announced to the crowd. Hoping they’d forgotten the teapot, since he’d done his diversion with the candy. “The sheykh was long in years and honor. Allah took him to his bosom, blessed be His name. There is no one guilty.”
They wavered, murmuring. Finally Qurban stepped forward. “We have no imam now. But I will say a du’a.”
Teddy nodded. Gave him a “you have the floor” sweep of one arm.
Lifting his hands in the shape of a begging bowl, the old fighter intoned, in flawless Arabic, “As the Prophet, peace be upon him, said at a funeral: Allah, have mercy on him. Forgive his sins, wash him with snow, clear him of his sin as a white shirt is cleaned of dirt. Give him a house better than his home on earth, a family better than his family on earth, a wife better than his wife on earth, and spare him the torture of hellfire. In Allah’s name, Amin.”
“Amin,” they all echoed. Qurban shot Teddy a narrowed look, but said nothing more.
As Teddy thought, Fuck. The bastard just dog-whistled the religious right.
Slowly, the crowd dispersed.
VLAD left the next morning. Their farewell was edgy. Vlad told him again ITIM had to cut back on the civilian losses. Teddy promised to, again. At last the CIA man mounted the donkey, tossed a salute, and rode off down the valley.
As soon as he was out of sight Teddy retrieved the camera, popped out the chip, and hid it in his cave. Had to start packing soon, if the Hunza were coming. Fortunately that wouldn’t take long. His drone rifle, his bedroll, his weapons. And Dandan, to carry everything.
When the old sheykh’s funeral was over, Teddy, Nasrullah, Guldulla, and Qurban sat down together in the cave.
Teddy kept his face serene. With the scars, of course, he always looked terrifying, but he tried to smooth his expression to placid acceptance.
It had been poison, of course. The old man might have been half blind, but from his wife’s reaction, he’d been hale enough to be actively porking the Chinese babe.
One of the three sitting with him was most likely the killer.
Guldulla, of course, was the likeliest successor to the sheykh for overall leadership. Teddy had always figured him for a straight shooter, but ambition couldn’t be ruled out. Nasrullah, the spymaster, ran the asset who’d brought the gift chocolates. The girl had eaten some, but only one would have had to contain poison. And Qurban had been with the imam earlier, drinking tea. Nothing easier than to drop a little something into the pot.
Before he could speak Qurban raised his hand. “May I?”
Teddy looked to Guldulla, who hesitated, then nodded.
“I have fought in many lands, but I am not an Uighur,” the Arab said smoothly. “I will happily follow the leadership of our brave commander, Lingxiù Teddy al-Amriki, friend from over the seas, who has joined the Umma of the Faithful.”
Teddy forced something he hoped resembled a modest smile. A great opening move. One there was only one response to. “I appreciate the honor, Hajji. And I too have fought in many lands. But neither can I lead you. ITIM is a movement of the Turkics. It should be led by one.” He nodded to Guldulla. “Like Tokarev. Brave in battle, wise in counsel. Also, the second most handsome of us.”
They looked disbelieving, then got it. There, a chuckle or two. Good.
“Yes, a wise proposal,” the ex-al-Qaeda fighter said.
Guldulla stroked his two-tone mustache. “I wish we weren’t discussing this. But we must. You would acknowledge me as commander? And the Lingxiù as our military chief?”
Qurban bowed to the ground. “You will be our honored amir al-mumineen. The Commander of the Faithful. All I ask is to be allowed to lead the prayers.”
Teddy kept his eyes on the rug. He didn’t believe a word of it. The guy was dying to be alpha wolf. Had made that plain since he arrived.
Raising his gaze, Teddy said evenly, “Of course, the hajji must lead our prayers. There must be peace between us, and understanding. Let us trust one another, go forward together, and strike the enemy as one fist.”
Their eyes met across the carpet, and Teddy Oberg understood.
No matter what was said aloud, sooner or later, two of them would have to die.