The head of al-Ayeelaa sat in his upstairs bedroom, with the window open, puffing on an American cigarette. He’d seen footage of the raid in his city, in the very compound he owned, on the TV from his house nearly an hour away. Had he looked out the right window at the right time, he might have been able to see the smoke rising into the sky. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The smoke of his cigarette trailed out the window, reaching toward the morning sun.
“Should we be worried?” his wife had asked him earlier.
Images of explosions and screaming masses flashed on the TV behind her. He knew many of the faces on the TV. She had her hands on her hips.
“No,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“You’re positive.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She walked out of the room and tried herding her three children outside to play on the tire swing in the front yard. He had left the TV and climbed the stairs, sat on the edge of his bed.
He smoked only upstairs and had chosen Marlboros exclusively for the last decade, no matter how hard it was to get them. When he’d fought the Russians he smoked only Sobranies. He sat with his legs crossed, a wrist balanced elegantly over his knee. He looked at the leather bracelet on his wrist. A hunk of marble mountainside blasted by a Soviet rocket that had literally landed in his lap was fashioned between the dark leather straps. Pieces of the rock had lodged in his legs when the rocket hit, nearly killing him. He’d packed the rock in his sack and steeled his men and they held out and the Spetsnaz retreated. The man had called it a victory, though he probably knew it just hadn’t been a defeat. He had bracelets made up from the hunk of rock for his nephews and nieces, and their eyes lit up when they saw the flecks of ruby in the smoky rock. It made him smile. One of the nephews he’d given a bracelet to—his favorite and the only one who’d fought with him—was dead and another was missing. He vowed to care for the dead nephew’s wife, so he had her remarried to one of his top lieutenants. He hadn’t made it to the family pass yet to speak with his brother and formally grieve. Make peace.
The morning’s fight in his compound would complicate things. He and his wife had talked about what she would do if he was ever taken by the Americans. There would be one call from the phone buried in plastic in their compost pile out back. The family would wait, he hoped he’d return, and then they would have to go into hiding. They hadn’t had to yet, but he knew that probably wouldn’t last.
Most of the other cell leaders were arrogant and dead, or soon to be. They made videos claiming responsibility for attacks, and doing so restricted their movements. Meanwhile, he had been able to walk around, live a normal life with his family. His oldest daughter was even in the West, of all places, studying at university. It was his suggestion, helped with appearances.
Then the family phone rang and he heard his wife’s voice. She called him downstairs. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rose off the bed. He turned and smoothed the bedspread with his hands, his cigarette stuck to his lips. It was his wife’s side of the bed. He stood upright, left the window open. His children’s rooms weren’t far down the hall. He wet his fingertips and squeezed the lit tip, then he left the cigarette on the windowsill.
He walked downstairs, picked up the phone. A man’s voice. Speaking fast. He cut him off.
“You called my home. Still, you called my home. Did they find anything? No. You’re sure. What happened to the computers? And everything was moved. You’re sure. Slow down. It’s okay. No, I’m not mad at you. It was a matter of time. Yes, the mountains. I don’t know. Could be tonight, could be weeks. Years. No. I’m not mad. Yes. I’d leave right away. Yes, we’ll have to leave soon. This is your cell? How many cards do you have? Get rid of them. Yes, all but the one. Yes, theirs, too. Yes. All of them. No throw them away, you should have long ago. Good-bye. See you.”
The call took only a few minutes, the man’s voice on the other end rushed and breathless. It was the last time the two would speak and the man who received the call likely knew it, for he would put everything in motion. The ambush would buy him and his family time, but at the expense of the lives of others. Those decisions had been made so many times now that he probably didn’t even think twice as he said good-bye to the man who would soon be dead.
His two boys were at his side when he put the receiver back in the cradle. He hadn’t seen them enter from the yard. The call was distracting. They tugged on his pants with their little hands. His shirt. They pointed outside to the yard and he looked through the living room window. His wife stood at the tire swing with her arms held out, palms turned up. She shrugged and laughed. She couldn’t push as high.
“Okay,” he said. “Grab your sister. She likes to fly, too.”
The boys ran off, babbling excitedly. They screamed for their sister to come out of her room while the sound of an insect buzzing came from the kitchen. He walked over, craned his neck over the kitchen sink, and looked out the window. Helicopters flew overhead lazily in the sun. They looked like the pair his men had put down just a month or two before.