XXX Black Site
Near XXXXXXXXXXXXX
August
REECE KNEW HE WAS almost out of air. Despite his attempts to stay calm, his heart raced, eating up precious oxygen. His world had darkened at the edges of his vision due to the suffocation. He was in trouble, and he knew it.
He was suddenly with his father, hiking a steep muddy trail canopied by the thick vegetation of North Carolina’s Nantahala National Forest. His father’s career in what they thought was the foreign service meant long periods of separation, so Reece cherished the time they spent together. They’d walked down a twisting narrow path to a surging waterfall, hidden miles from the nearest highway. The steady rains in these mountains provided a constant source of creek water that had worn the rocky face so smooth that you could actually slide down part of the falls in the seated position and splash into the deep pool at the bottom. It was a place where people had gathered long before any Europeans had stepped ashore in the New World, and it was still special.
The heavens opened and within seconds they were drenched from an abrupt deluge of rain; their respite from the summer heat had become a shivering battle for warmth. His father took a look at his son, whose face was a mask of misery, and decided that they would hike back to the Wagoneer at the trailhead, which meant a steep and muddy climb in the torrential downpour. James’s little legs powered along as best they could, attempting to match his father’s long and powerful stride.
“C’mon, Jamesy, you can do it, buddy. Just put one foot in front of the other.”
James wasn’t about to let his father, or himself, down. He’d climb three steps forward and slide two steps back in the slick brown ooze that the trail had become but kept moving forward, his legs feeling like jelly.
Thomas Reece wiped the crystal of the faded steel dive watch on his wrist. “Twenty more minutes and we’re back at the car, James. Just don’t quit, buddy; life is hard sometimes, but if you stay with it and keep moving forward, you’ll prevail . . . trust me.”
Reece kept hiking, maintaining a stiff upper lip and a stride that mimicked his father’s gait. He tripped over twisted roots on the trail, his muddy sneakers squished brown water with each step, but he pressed on.
“You’ve got it, son . . . Never quit!”
He wasn’t going to quit.
Reece was suddenly back in the present, sweat stinging his eyes. He struggled to free himself, but the hold was too strong, the other man’s legs locking his neck in a delta of flesh and muscle and restricting the flow of blood and oxygen to his brain. His opponent was on his back with one hand pulling Reece’s right arm across his body and the other pulling downward on his head. The man’s right thigh was pressed against one side of his neck and a bent leg hooked over the back of his head, compressing Reece’s own shoulder into his throat. In jiujitsu terms, the man had Reece in what was known as a triangle choke. He had set the trap perfectly, and Reece had taken the bait. Damn, this guy is strong. Reece sucked oxygen and, for a moment, gained absolute clarity regarding his position. The proper technique for escape from a triangle had been drilled into him years before by sixth-degree Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belt Master Renzo Gracie at his academy in New York. Though they trained constantly in Virginia Beach, Reece and his platoon still made the six-hour pilgrimage to Manhattan to train with the grandson of legendary Gracie Jiu-Jitsu founder Carlos Gracie as often as they could.
With a surge of energy, Reece postured up, craning his neck upward in the process. The man saw his attempt to escape and increased the force upon Reece’s neck. Using all his strength, he moved his hips as high as possible and began to move laterally, slowly turning his body at a right angle to that of his adversary. Like a coiled spring, Reece snapped his hip against the man’s legs, breaking the choke. His lungs filled with air that, despite the heat and odor of sweat, was like a taste of paradise. Continuing his momentum, Reece worked quickly into side control, snaking one arm under the man’s neck and one over his body, locking his hands into a Gable grip. It was a chance to suck in critical oxygen, clear his mind, and regain his composure after nearly blacking out only seconds earlier.
Taking the initiative brought by his position, Reece threw his leg over the man’s body and climbed astride, putting him into mount—the most dominant position in ground fighting. He grasped the man’s arm and pushed it to the ground, causing his rival to turn onto his side in defense against the shoulder lock. As he did so, Reece slid farther up his torso and took his adversary’s exposed back. His opponent knew what Reece was trying to do and fought a “grip fight” to prevent Reece from getting his arm across his exposed throat. Reece used his legs like hooks, sliding them around the front of the man’s body like a constricting snake. His arm slid past his opponent’s sweat-soaked hand and wrapped over the neck. With his opposite hand, he locked it into the crook of his elbow, using it as a fulcrum against the throat and carotid artery. With a technically perfect rear naked choke, there is essentially no escape; the other fighter had three to five seconds before he would black out. Reece felt the tap on his forearm and released his grip. Freddy Strain gasped for air.
“Shit, I thought I had you with that triangle.”
“You almost did,” Reece admitted, sucking in precious oxygen.
“Thanks for not making eye contact.”
Both men laughed at the tired jiujitsu joke.
Reece lay back onto the mats and took some deep breaths.
“I’m proud of you, James—you didn’t quit.” His father tousled his son’s wet hair in the front seat of the faux-paneled Jeep back at the trailhead. “Remember, a fight isn’t just about surviving, it’s about prevailing. There’s a difference.”
These weeks of training in XXXXXXX had hardened his resolve and cleared his mind; Reece had become a warrior again.
After their “rolling” session, Reece and Freddy ran a few laps around the inside wall of the compound before getting into their morning workout. Like most of the special operations community, their physical training centered on useful strength, cardiovascular endurance, and durability, which, as both of them were pushing age forty, was increasingly important. Looking like a steroid-fueled bodybuilder was not part of the equation and was a liability in terms of both physical performance and blending into civilian populations.
Their workouts pulled elements from various coaches and training programs, including CrossFit, Gym Jones, and StrongFirst. The idea wasn’t to be able to compete with endurance athletes, power lifters, or alpinists, but to achieve a broad-based level of fitness that would allow them to perform well in each of those areas. After a series of warm-up exercises that most would consider a serious workout, they completed the strength and endurance Hero WOD “Murph,” named in honor of Navy SEAL Lieutenant Mike Murphy. Wearing their body armor, they started with one hundred burpees followed by four one-hundred-yard buddy carries. Then it was right into a two-mile run, one hundred pull-ups, two hundred push-ups, three hundred air squats, followed by another two-mile run. Both men powered through, thinking of the scores of soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines who didn’t make it home.
After a shower and lunch, it was off to school for Reece while Freddy caught up on whatever admin tasks Langley was sending his way. By dusk they’d be back on the range, which tonight meant long-distance precision shooting in low light. The rhythm of the training suited Reece well and reminded him of his days as a young enlisted SEAL in the pre-9/11 era, the lifestyle that led many to joke that the SEAL acronym stood for “Sleep, EAt, Lift,” or as their Army brothers used to joke, “Sleep, EAt, and Lie around.”
It felt good to be training alongside his old sniper buddy, honing his skills for the mission ahead.
“A file came in on Mo from Langley,” Freddy said as they packed up their rifles under a beautiful starlit sky. “Makes for some interesting reading. I printed it and left it in the briefing room safe. Give it a look tonight. Might help shed some light on where he is and why he’s turned.”
Reece nodded. If his old friend really had switched sides after their time in Iraq and was now running a terrorist cell in Europe, Reece was going to have to be at the top of his game.
• • •
Later that night, Reece turned on a small lamp at his desk, opened the CIA’s file on Mohammed Farooq, and began to read.
Mo’s father had been an academic, educated first at the University of Baghdad, majoring in biology and then studying abroad, where he completed his Ph.D. in plant toxins from the University of East Anglia’s School of Biological Sciences in Norwich, England. Returning to Iraq, he had found a home teaching and conducting research at his alma mater, eventually rising to chair the biological sciences department. Both of Mo’s older sisters were studying at the university where their father taught and would sometimes stop by to visit him between classes. Mo had been blessed with his father’s intellect and his mother’s good looks, excelling in school and on the football pitch. He chased girls with his friends and ran a small black-market enterprise selling bootlegged CDs of American and European pop music that put some additional Iraqi dinar in his pocket. “Biology” and “plant toxins” didn’t mean much to Mohammed. From his perspective, they were just something his dad lectured about in what seemed to be a fairly dull profession. Life was good for the popular young Iraqi, until his sisters did not return from university.
Pretending to be asleep that night, Mohammed strained to listen to his parents’ hushed voices as they sat hunched around the small round dining table where they had all eaten together for as long as he could remember. From beneath the covers of his mat on the floor of the next room, Mo had risked a glance into the kitchen; the fear he saw etched across the faces of his mother and father would be forever imprinted on his memory. He distinctly heard his mother’s strained voice whisper “Uday.” It was just beginning to dawn on the young man that his sisters might never join them for dinner again.
His father had been a kind and thoughtful man, insisting on speaking and reading English and German in their house so that his children could live fuller, more prosperous lives. When he said goodbye to his only son the next morning, he did so in Arabic. That night, Mohammed and his mother waited up for a man who would never return. In the days of Saddam, one did not ask questions, particularly when those questions involved one of the president’s sons.
Inquiries at the university went unanswered. Mo and his mother attempted to meet with school officials, only to be kept waiting indefinitely in the reception area. Dr. Farooq’s name had been removed from his office door, and the entire room was empty, except for a desk and chair. It was as if he had never existed. Both mother and son knew better than to go to the authorities.
Six months later, his mother passed away in her sleep, and sixteen-year-old Mohammed was alone.
But Mohammed had a plan. He had learned patience from his parents and knew enough to realize that he needed training, intelligence, and access if he was to avenge them.
Even in a police state, there were ways to go unnoticed. As in most countries around the world, there was a subset of the population in Iraq’s capital city that went almost ignored among its eight million inhabitants. The homeless were invisible, and Mohammed became one of them, joining the ranks of the unwanted, sleeping in the streets, learning to subsist from the alcoholics, drug abusers, criminals, and the mentally ill. Out of necessity, he learned to fight, to defend what was his, but more important, he learned how to think like a criminal, like a survivor. The logic he had learned from his father was applied practically in the back alleys of the ancient city. Under the constant threat of government sweeps and forced disappearances, Mohammed’s black-market CD money provided just enough cash for meals, which he shared with those who passed along their knowledge.
When the kid known simply as Mo vanished, the rhythm of the dusty streets continued unabated. But Mohammed wasn’t imprisoned by the secret police, nor was his body bloating in the Tigris. He was on his way north. North to those who lived in the mountains along the Turkish border. North to be either killed or accepted by the Kurdish Peshmerga, the military wing of Iraq’s largest ethnic minority group. The Kurdish people had known nothing but war for centuries; rebellion was in their blood. Blurring the lines between a guerrilla force and standing army, Peshmerga translates as “those who face death,” and Mohammed was ready to do just that. Exhausted and near death himself on arrival, he was at first a curiosity until his value was recognized by senior Peshmerga leaders. They decided he could be useful. Training began in earnest, and the boy from Baghdad started his formal education in irregular warfare.
When the CIA reactivated their network in Northern Iraq before the 2003 invasion, they were surprised to find a young Iraqi, fluent in English, German, Arabic, and Kurdish. Not yet in his midtwenties, Mohammed had trained and fought alongside his adopted Kurdish brothers and sisters, distinguishing himself in battle, and had been hardened by the atrocities of the Iraqi government. That government was not merely quelling an uprising, it was systematically conducting a campaign of genocide against the Kurdish people. From the CIA’s perspective, Mohammed Farooq had all the qualities and attributes required of a deep-penetration agent in what would be the new Iraqi government. Unbeknownst to them at the time, Mohammed had another, more personal agenda.
As part of the CIA support of Peshmerga forces, Mohammed was released into the custody of his new masters. At a base in Jordan, he began a training program with U.S. Army Special Forces, building on his experience in Northern Iraq. The Agency had assembled a group of Iraqi exiles and selected Kurds for special operations training by two Army ODAs for what the trainees were told were leadership positions in the post-invasion Iraqi Army. As with most undertakings in the intelligence world, that was true only on the surface. At its heart, it was a selection process. Aptitude with firearms and explosives were tested, along with close-quarters combat and decision making under the stressors of urban combat simulations. The Agency’s best polygraphers and psychologists were flown in from Northern Virginia to administer their exams, both to assess loyalties and establish a baseline for future scrutiny. Those who excelled eventually boarded a C17 that touched down sixteen hours later at Hurlburt Field, Florida. From there, they were driven in windowless vans to a classified CIA facility for indoctrination, further assessment, and doctorates in the darker arts of espionage under the expert tutelage of the Agency’s Special Activities Division. The small group that graduated became known as the Scorpions, and in early 2003 they returned to Jordan, where they staged for war. Led by the CIA’s Ground Branch, the Scorpions infiltrated Iraq prior to the official invasion to coordinate precision air strikes, incite rebellion to overthrow the regime, and assassinate high-ranking members of the Iraqi government. Of the fifty-two high-value targets on his issued deck of cards, Mohammed kept only one in his pocket: the ace of hearts, Uday Hussein.
A knock on the door pulled Reece out of the past.
“Yeah,” he called out flipping the page.
The door opened, and Freddy leaned against the doorjamb, a bottle of water in his hand.
“Water?”
“Sure,” Reece replied, turning in his chair to catch the toss from his friend.
“I told you it was interesting reading. Did you know all that?”
“Mo told me some of it but not in the detail here. This thing reads like a novel.”
“Well, as you can see, the Agency invested a lot of time, energy, and effort, not to mention money, on him. The psychologists and analysts did a thorough job. Want to see your file?” Freddy asked with a smile.
“Ha! Not tonight. The psychoanalysis might be a bit much.”
“Good call.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he would switch sides. He seems like the perfect spook. The background and right motivators are there. I just don’t see how or why he goes rogue.”
“Obviously, the big brains at Langley couldn’t figure it out either. Get some rest, buddy. And let me know if that file sparks any ideas.”
Sleep did not come easily. Reece’s thoughts kept returning to a young orphan, living in the treacherous streets of Baghdad, dreaming of revenge.