Chapter Twenty

 

 

Al-Zemrah, Iraq

 

Justin was taken to a small one-story cinderblock house, like most buildings in the village. It was very nondescript; perhaps the only noticeable feature was the black wrought-iron door of the gate, adorned with a heart-like motif. He found it ironic, in this land of so much violence and bloodshed. But he reasoned there were still people who loved and dreamed of a time without fighting and wars.

Hadi’s men escorted Justin inside the house, then took him to a room near the back. He was not exactly detained, as he was not told he could not go out. However, the implication was clear, since one of the gunmen—a young man in perhaps his early twenties sporting a thin goatee—sat across the floor and kept his Kalashnikov rifle pointed at Justin.

When he got comfortable sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, Justin asked the gunman, “What’s your name?”

He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Ali.”

“Ali? That’s a Shia name. What are you doing in this Sunni region?”

“This is not Sunni. This is my home.”

“But Sunnis make up almost ninety percent of the people.”

“So?”

“You feel safe?”

Ali tightened his grip around the rifle. “Of course I do.”

“And your family?”

He did not answer right away. “Daesh killed my family,” he said in an unwavering voice, using the derogatory term to refer to the Islamic State.

Justin nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in a warm tone.

It made sense that Ali would volunteer to join the local militia, regardless of their ethnic background, to avenge the death of his family members. He would kill or perhaps had already killed jihadi fighters, who had families too, feeding the vicious cycle of death.

Ali kept a stoic face. “They died as martyrs. And one day, I will join them too.”

Justin nodded and leaned back, resting against the wall. “How safe is this area?”

Ali locked eyes with Justin. “Why do you ask?”

“Making conversation.”

“It sounds like you’re gathering information.”

“And why is that wrong?”

“If you’re a spy...” Ali’s right hand moved closer to the rifle’s trigger.

Justin shrugged and decided to remain quiet. He did not want to provoke the young fighter, even unintentionally, and causing him to accidentally fire the rifle.

A few long minutes dragged on as Justin thought about Carrie and Ying. Carrie was a combat-hardened operative, who had been in even dicier situations. She would not be unnerved by the brief detention and the armed ragtag fighters looming around her. Justin was not completely sure about Ying. She had proven herself during the shootout in London, but the firefight with the border guards seemed to have thrown her off balance. Maybe she hasn’t seen much combat. Who is she anyway?

Justin had conducted extensive research on Ying’s background. He had not been able to find much, which was not surprising, considering she worked for the ultra-secretive MSS. Ying had been involved in several field operations, mostly in Asia, but also in Europe and the Middle East. One in particular had caught Justin’s attention. It did not seem to fit her profile as data analyst and profiler, since it was a rescue mission in northern Syria.

A local extremist group affiliated with Al-Qaeda had kidnapped two Chinese nationals suspected of being spies. Ying was dispatched with a team of Chinese operatives. The rescue mission had not gone as well as planned, with one of the hostages gravely wounded and the other killed during the raid in northern Raqqa, the IS headquarters. Why was Ying part of that op? The redacted Chinese file did not specify Ying’s role. Rescue missions required well-trained and experienced operatives, familiar with tactical, urban combat. Ying had displayed none of those skills. Am I missing something here?

The door opened with a bone-rattling screech, interrupting Justin’s train of thought. He glanced up at Hadi, then at the second man who stepped inside the room. He was dressed in desert tan camouflage jacket and pants and was perhaps in his late thirties. Short black hair feathered down to his neck. The man had a tanned face, small, black eyes that measured Justin up, and a beard that followed the lines of his square face. Justin wondered if he was an Iraqi, like Hadi. Maybe he’s Hadi’s superior, or an elder of the village.

Justin stood up and took a step toward the man.

Ali sprang to his feet, his rifle pointed at Justin.

“Put that away,” the man ordered Ali in a strong, stern voice. “And leave the room.”

Ali nodded and made his way into the hall.

“This is the man.” Hadi waved in Justin’s direction. “He claims he’s a Peshmerga.”

The man nodded. “And his story checks out?”

“So far. But I’m still looking.” Hadi’s voice had taken on a deferential tone.

“Keep doing that, and come get us if you learn something new.”

“I will do that.” Hadi nodded respectfully and closed the door behind him.

The man gestured for Justin to return to his seat, then sat a couple of feet across from Justin, who said, “How is my brother?”

“The doctor’s still with him. It’s a difficult surgery.”

Justin nodded. “Thanks.”

The man said, “My name is Isaac Shapiro, and I work for Mossad.” He spoke in fluent Arabic.

Justin’s jaw almost dropped. “You do?”

“Yes. You look and sound surprised.”

“I truly am. Not many people would make such a bold claim. Admitting to working for the Israeli security agency could get one killed.”

Isaac stretched out his arms. “Here I am, as you can see, in very good health.”

Justin nodded, but did not say anything.

Isaac tipped his head toward Justin. “You seem to be uninformed about the situation on the ground. How can you do that and still be a Peshmerga?”

Justin shrugged. “I know how to use a gun. I leave the important decisions to Commander Sharifi and others I trust.”

Isaac nodded. “Yes, yes, the ones we trust.” He leaned forward, closer to Justin. “See, I have a problem with your entire story. It doesn’t ring true, and I don’t believe it.”

Justin said nothing but held Isaac’s gaze.

Isaac continued, “You’re thinking that I’m Mossad, so trust doesn’t come easily. That’s true. But here’s the main problem: We’ve seen a wave of Iranian or Iranian-supported activities in this area. Operatives, state-of-the-art weapons, Hezbollah militia, all sorts of enemy operations.”

Justin nodded. He understood Isaac’s viewpoint. The militant group Hezbollah—branded as a terrorist organization by the United States and most of the Western world and heavily financed by Iran—had been and still was Israel’s number one enemy, always a thorn in Israel’s side. Hezbollah had sworn to fight until Israel was completely destroyed.

Justin shifted his body weight and said, “What exactly are you doing here?”

Isaac shrugged. “My role is not under discussion here. If you really are who I think you are, you can draw your own correct conclusions. But since you asked, I can tell you that I’m an intelligence-gathering operative.”

“You work in reconnaissance?”

Isaac nodded. “Exactly.”

“And what happens to these people that you identify as Iranians?”

“It depends on who they are, what they’re doing in the area, and whether they want to cooperate. See, the Iraqis and the Syrians don’t want more trouble than they already have. There have always been tensions and even open hostilities, fighting and wars, among them. So we’re here to help keep Iraq and Syria free from the poisonous Iranian influence.”

“Also keep one of Israel’s archenemies in its place?”

Isaac offered a sly grin. “That goes without saying.”

Justin nodded. Iranian leaders continuously threatened to annihilate Israel and flatten its cities. The most recent clash had been a month ago. An Israeli Apache helicopter intercepted, and later attacked and destroyed, a suspected Iranian drone, which was allegedly launched from Syria and had infiltrated Israel’s airspace. Afterwards, Israel Defense Forces bombed what they claimed were Iranian and Syrian targets in Syria, which responded by downing one of Israel’s F-16 fighter jets. In the past, Mossad, and other Israeli intelligence and security forces, had carried out dozens of operations deep inside Iran to thwart its continuous plans to build nuclear weapons.

Justin said, “And you suspect I’m an Iranian spy?”

“No, you don’t give me that impression. And you’re working along with two women, one of them Asian, maybe Chinese. That’s not the way the Iranians or Hezbollah operate. But I don’t think you’re a Peshmerga either.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Well, for starters, there’s something in your accent. Your Arabic is extremely good, and you could fool many people. There’s a tinge of another language hidden, but not very well. I would say English, knowing how involved the CIA and the British intel services are in this region. How am I doing?”

Justin kept a straight face.

Isaac continued, “Then, it’s your reactions or lack thereof. I’ve seen more than my fair share of Peshmergas. As much as I love them, since they’ve done much more to combat terrorism all over Syria and Iraq than all the Western coalition forces combined, they’re much more expressive—explosive, I would say. In your place, they would have shouted, probably attacked one of the guards.” Isaac motioned with his hands toward Justin. “You, on the other hand, you’ve kept your cool. You’re trained not to break under pressure. Because you’re not a Peshmerga. You’re a trained covert operative.”

Justin shrugged. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you’re right. What happens next?”

Isaac smiled. “I know I’m right. I also know that you and your team owe me and my men a big favor. The doctor is fighting to save your ‘brother’s’ life. And that’s not hypothetically.”

“So you want something in return, again hypothetically?”

Isaac shook his head. “You should stop using that word. We both know it doesn’t apply to this situation.”

Justin nodded. “Sure, I’ll stop using it. What do you want?”

“I’m still thinking about it, but perhaps I have an assignment.”

“And what is it?”

Isaac grinned. “I wouldn’t tell it to Peshmerga Halmat, but I would tell it to an operative of...”

Justin did not take the bait. He remained silent for a brief moment, then said, “Go on.”

Isaac shook his head. “No point in wasting my time.” He sighed and stood up. “I’ll give you a chance to perhaps change your mind. Hadi’s still looking into your story, and we both know we’ll find something. One of your old or new friends will make a mistake, a slip of the tongue ... It’s better for you and your team to tell me the truth ... now.”

Justin frowned and clenched his jaws at Isaac’s veiled threat. “If something happens to my team—”

“Nothing will happen to you or them, if you don’t lie to me. But if you do—”

Justin cut him off and jumped to his feet. “If someone touches a hair on them—”

“Calm down.” Isaac motioned with his hand. “No need for threats. Come clean with me, and we can come to an agreeable solution.” He nodded at the door, then added, “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He switched to English. “I’m sure you understand my words. If Hadi or I find out something is wrong with your cover story, it will be difficult to work out an agreement.”

Justin held Isaac’s stern gaze and again said nothing.

Isaac shrugged. “We’ll do as you want, then.”

He walked slowly to the door, then banged on it with his fist. “Think about it, but don’t take too long,” he said when the door opened and stepped out.

Justin drew in a deep breath as someone slammed the door shut. Oh, this isn’t going well. Why did it have to be this way? He cursed under his breath and began to ponder his options.