Two Graves For Waziristan

By Marcus L. Garand

Abducted by militants and taken to a fetid bunker deep in the mountains of North Waziristan, a journalist meets a dying holy man who saddles him with an ominous obligation. The obligation is unclear and Reis knows the man will expire within hours, freeing him from responsibility. He does nothing and tries to forget, but six months later, when he learns the cleric has died hundreds of miles from the bunker, he realizes he must act. The problem is he doesn't know where to start...

Lake, a former Marine Force Recon officer and now with the CIA's Special Activities Division, has led paramilitary operations in Kuwait, Iraq, Bosnia, Sudan, and Pakistan. An alleged affair with a married Muslim woman gets him transferred from Islamabad to Kabul and then out to Orgun-E, where he trains a guerrilla army in the restive border regions. One night, he receives a strange parcel and a dangerous opportunity. Three years from retirement, Lake must decide if it's worth the risks. To make the decision, he must first meet a murderous Yemeni who has sworn to kill him and demands he come alone. He accepts, and the opportunity in Waziristan could bring the American government to its knees...

A section leader at the Counter Terrorism Center in Langley, she has hunted Osama bin Laden for five years, chasing every rumor that might lead to his capture. Forsythe is the best the agency has and her energy and dedication alienate some lesser colleagues, who she suspects may be leaking information. When she eavesdrops on a conversation in a nearby coffee shop, she worries that her identity and her position have been compromised. Her fears are confirmed when she receives an anonymous phone call on a secure line at her townhouse. What she hears will take her from Langley to Guantanamo Bay to the White House, embroil her in a questionable special operations mission, and put her on a collision course with her lover...

Reis, Lake, Forsythe, a Russian military attache, a Navy SEAL sniper, an Al Qaeda informant, and a grizzled detective. All have pieces of a sinister puzzle, but none of them know it. Finding each piece and what it means will throw the characters on a roller coaster ride of lies, betrayal, diamonds, and death. If they survive, the puzzle is complete, the ones behind the most heinous betrayal in history will be unmasked, and the world will know what really happened in Abbottabad...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcus L. Garand
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370563289

Marcus L. Garand

Marcus Garand is a former sales and marketing executive in the professional services industry. Two Graves For Waziristan is his first novel. The son of a career military officer and a product of military high schools and college, he enlisted in the Marine Corps and served in Vietnam. During a varied career, he directed international and government sales operations for US- and foreign-based organizations in the software and solar industries, he was an independent consultant advising companies on military equipment sales, and he marketed the services of former special operations personnel. For a time, he ran a private company that specialized in security for bars and nightclubs. He was present in Nairobi when the bombing of the American embassy occurred and he was living in Washington, DC, when the Pentagon was attacked on 9/11. The horrific events profoundly shaped his perspective on ideological conflict and terrorism. While in Montenegro watching a BBC special on the death of Osama bin Laden and the confusion surrounding it, he was inspired to write. Two Graves For Waziristan is the result of that inspiration.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Riot

December 20, 2008

Islamabad, Pakistan

The American Embassy was under siege.

Two thousand angry protesters massed in the streets outside the walls of the diplomatic enclave. Incited by local imams, the demonstration had grown uglier. Marines in combat gear stood ready inside the fortress, dodging rocks and bottles and repelling protesters who tried to scale the walls. The rabid mob waved banners and signs as they hurled stones and shoes at the Marines. They stomped and burned the American flag and told America to go to hell. An Al Qaeda banner fluttered among the crowd.

When a group of balaclava-clad demonstrators stormed the gate, they were met by a fusillade of point-blank tear gas fired by the Marines. In the smoke and confusion, three demonstrators were trampled to death. Another tried to throw a satchel charge over the wall and into the swimming pool. He was intercepted by Pakistan riot police, beaten unconscious in front of a CNN film crew, and dragged off by men in civilian clothes.

The imams were demanding the head of a case officer who worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. They accused him of bedding a local official’s attractive wife. After several beatings administered by her husband, the woman had named her paramour and blown his cover. The mob demanded his arrest and execution.

Four hours into the demonstration, the Pakistan army moved on the rioters with tanks and water cannons. Most were swept away, but a few managed to throw Molotov cocktails at the soldiers before they were carried off in the deluge.

In a bid to squelch the violence, the American ambassador hurriedly conferred with the Secretary of State and the Director of the CIA. They agreed that the accused be transferred without delay.

Within the hour, Jonathan Lake had packed his gear and boarded a flight to Afghanistan.

EMISSARY

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October 15, 2009

Grozny, Chechen Republic, Russian Federation

On the steps of the Lermontov Theater, Pamir Tareen waited for the ride that would take him to Zavadaskoy district.

His business had put him in Grozny, capital of a restive Russian republic that had endured a vortex of revolution and Islamic jihad. It was a place he never wished to visit. He planned to leave immediately after the assignment.

He had come to Chechnya to inspect an item his employers sought to purchase. One half of the asking price, good-faith money of ten million dollars, had been wired to an escrow account in Switzerland. He was to verify that the item was worth the deposit and the balance.

A fellow in the Pakistan Physics Society, Tareen was a scientist at KANUPP-1, the atomic reactor facility in Karachi. An esteemed authority in the field of nuclear physics, he had published ground-breaking research papers and had served on several arms limitation panels. Recently, he had taken a sabbatical, telling family and colleagues that he was pursuing new research. He lied about the real reason, just as he had lied many times to avoid discovery.

A black Mercedes sedan circled the theater and pulled up in front of the steps. Two hard-looking men in suits got out and frisked the physicist. One examined his passport and passed it to the driver, who gruffly assured Tareen it would be returned. They ushered him into the Mercedes, where he sat quietly as the car headed for Zavadaskoy. He was in Chechen hands and he had no idea what he was facing.

After fifteen years of horror, Grozny was no longer at war. Gleaming skyscrapers, a majestic mosque, newly-restored parks, ritzy sushi restaurants, and an ice skating rink belied what the capital had suffered. But on the ride through the city, Tareen saw vivid reminders of its recent past.

Deserted playgrounds and schoolyards were scarred with craters dug by rockets and artillery. Pockmarked buildings teetered above rubble-strewn sidewalks still faintly stained with red. Like skeletons from Hiroshima, acres of blackened, gutted apartment blocks waited wearily for the wrecking ball. Ragged ribbons fluttered from the broken windows, shreds of white flags that desperate residents had hoped would spare their lives. On the avenues, limbless unfortunates, detritus from the mines sown by Russians and insurgents, limped pitiably on crutches or were coaxed along in rusted wheelchairs.

No longer a war zone, Grozny held its breath as it counted the precious days of peace. Tareen knew the days would be short. Chechnya was chained to Russia and the Caucasus was volatile ground.

When it reached Zavadaskoy, the Mercedes pulled into an alley behind a four-story structure. Tareen was hustled inside and turned over to three uniformed security guards. They bundled him past a group of armed and bearded men, through a maze of electronic doors and turnstiles, and into an elevator which descended to a climate-conditioned basement. The area had been specially prepared to hold the item he had come to inspect.

Bathed in the cool glow of fluorescent lighting, a rectangular object four feet in length and two feet in height rested on a reinforced metal table. Its gray exterior had no markings and its four latches were electronically padlocked. Its dimensions were in his notes, but Tareen was surprised it was larger than he expected. The object resembled a steamer trunk or an over-sized footlocker.

A man in a laboratory smock stood behind the table. He introduced himself as a physicist who would assist in the inspection. After a short overview, he freed the locks and lifted the lid. Tareen donned gloves and mask and began a methodical examination of the tightly-arranged contents. He cross-checked his notes, asked questions at key junctures, and – more than once – marveled aloud at the ingenuity of the design. The motherboard was magnificently constructed.

When he was satisfied that everything conformed to specifications, he removed the gloves and mask and asked to see the companion device. The assistant pointed to the end of the table, at what looked like an ordinary cellular phone.

On a miniature keypad attached to the motherboard, Tareen entered a series of digits that linked the item to the buyer. He entered the same numbers into the companion device, tying its functionality uniquely to the motherboard. He detached the keypad from the motherboard and locked the keypad and companion device in his briefcase. The purchase was approved. The item would stay in Grozny until his employers requested delivery.

When the Mercedes deposited him on the theater steps, the driver casually flipped him his passport and drove off without a word. The Chechens were all business and Tareen’s was concluded.

In his hotel room, he undressed and stuffed his clothing into a plastic bag. After a thorough shower, he put on fresh clothes and dropped the bag down an incinerator chute. Before his evening walk and a final supper in Grozny, he sent a text message to an associate in Karachi. The message was brief.

‘Cat in the cradle.’

The item was ready.

Afghanistan-Pakistan Central Border Area

CHAPTER ONE

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Conversation

October 26, 2010

Somewhere in North Waziristan

The van carried four armed men and a fifth who was bound at the wrists and blindfolded.

For most of the night the vehicle had jolted over rugged terrain, hugging the primitive trails that clung to the mountainside. Sandwiched between two captors who smelled like goats, the hostage rode cold and terrified. His abductors ignored him, telling stories and laughing raucously as they smoked like chimneys. The windows of the van were closed and the sputtering heater churned rancid tobacco smoke throughout the cabin, blending it with the flatulence of his fellow travelers. When he asked for a cigarette to calm his nerves, he was slapped in the face. Other than that, his companions did not acknowledge his presence.

The trip was nearing its end. He sensed the van switch-backing, traversing a ravine, negotiating treacherous ledges as it descended into a valley. It slid to a dusty halt and he was rudely yanked him from his seat. When a captor freed his hands and removed the blindfold, he was startled by a monstrous scar that ran from the man’s ear to his forehead. As he shivered in the morning chill and his eyes adjusted to the brilliant sun, the hostage massaged his swollen wrists and surveyed the moonscape around him.

A whitewashed mud house was tucked into the base of the mountain. It was flanked by two Land Rovers hidden under a camouflage net. A solar array topped the house and a generator, camouflaged and running, sat at the rear of the dwelling. Near the front entrance a sentry lounged in the shade of a solitary tree, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Two goats and a horse were the only other signs of life. The adrenaline released its grip on his bladder and the hostage had an overwhelming urge to piss. He stepped around the van and relieved himself.

An expert on Middle Eastern politics and conflicts, Devrim Reis was universally-acclaimed for his knowledge, objectivity, and political balance. He had garnered prestigious awards for his reporting. His treatise on Islamic fundamentalism was required reading in numerous counter-terrorism courses. He had been working on an article for Agence France-Presse when he was kidnapped from a hotel in Miranshah.

He suspected his abductors were Al Qaeda militants. The terror group targeted journalists on a regular basis, accusing them of espionage and using them as pawns in media campaigns or as ransom to extort the release of political prisoners. Several unfortunates had been brutally slain while the cameras rolled. Reis shuddered as he recalled the beheading of Daniel Pearl, a young reporter he had befriended in India. Fear ran through him and he vomited.

The man with the scar smirked as Reis wiped his mouth and fumbled in his pocket for a pack of Gauloises. His hands shook badly as he lifted a cigarette to his mouth. The driver of the van, the largest of his captors, offered him a lighter. Reis thanked him for the small kindness and wondered if the man would be his executioner.

The horse wandered up to him, aimlessly nuzzling at patches of brown weed. Words of Mohammed came to mind: ‘If one keeps a horse in Allah's cause, he will be rewarded for what the horse eats and drinks, and for its dung and urine.' Though a keen student of Islam, Reis rarely understood what the hell The Prophet was talking about.

A man and a woman emerged from the shanty and hurried toward him. The man was in his sixties, thin, with sallow complexion and prominent gray eyebrows. He was dressed in khaki shalwar kameez and wore a faded red taqiyah on his head. He was clean-shaven, unusual for a Muslim male.

The woman was striking. Tall and lithe with bright green eyes, she wore a headscarf that could not conceal her almost-blonde hair. A flowing blue abaya clung loosely to her body as she glided his way. Reis guessed she was in her early thirties. He was taken with this beauty that lived among goats and men that stunk like them.

The man extended his hands. "Ahlan wa sahlan, Sayyid Reis. Apologies will not erase the treatment you received. We hope you will forgive us. The man dropped his hands when the journalist did not reciprocate. Please consider yourself our guest." Reis couldn’t place the accent but the man wasn’t Pashtun.

My name is Sameh Ibrahim. I am a doctor. This woman is a nurse and wife to the holy man who lies inside.

Reis mumbled a reply, trying to recover his voice. The woman complimented him on his Arabic and offered to make tea. She left the two men standing by the horse.

Out of earshot of the others, Reis whispered to Ibrahim. Why did you bring me here? I have nothing of value to trade. Then, hesitatingly, glancing at his abductors, he asked, Will they kill me?

Ibrahim tried to calm the journalist. You have nothing to fear. There is an urgent reason for your presence. The holy man has cancer. We expect him to die within days, perhaps sooner.

Reis thought it strange that an imam would choose to die in a place that even Allah couldn't find. There wasn't a mosque for fifty miles in any direction.

The doctor continued. He asked for you. He reads your books and watches your interviews. He admires your knowledge and he respects your integrity. Despite his condition, Abu Hamza looks forward to talking with you. Please come with me.

Reis perked up at the name. He had heard it before, somewhere he couldn’t quite remember.

As he followed the doctor into the house he noticed the claymores. They were positioned around the yard, cleverly hidden in patches of scrub brush, their wires almost invisible in the sand. The holy man, whoever he was, merited serious protection. Ibrahim led him through a small kitchen and down a rough stone staircase into a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway a reinforced steel door opened into a four-room bunker.

In the center of the room, a man lay on a stack of mattresses enclosed on three sides by sandbags. He was tall and his bare feet hung over the end of the makeshift bed. An IV drip stand teetered near his head. A metal table next to the bed held vials of medication.

The pretty woman administered morphine to the motionless figure, hovering over him and blocking Reis’ view. When she moved away he warily approached the cadaverous form.

He recoiled at the face of Osama bin Laden.

The Prince was ashen and emaciated. Skeletal arms protruding from his gown bore needle marks and ugly purple blotches. His thin gray hair was soaked with perspiration and his beard, long and unkempt, was completely white. His wild eyes, orbs of onyx sunk deep in cancer-ravaged sockets, were calmly fixed on his visitor.

Reis felt faint. His legs buckled and his eyeglasses tumbled to the floor. Ibrahim held his arm and steadied him as he retrieved the glasses. When the woman brought him a chair, he sat down and tried to gather his thoughts. The room blurred and swirled, his hands trembled, and he felt a crushing pain in his chest.

He was trapped underground with a madman, murderer of thousands, the most odious monster in recent memory. His thoughts flashed to the World Trade Center, to dead American soldiers in a Riyadh barracks, to mangled Nairobi bodies pulled from the Ufundi building, to immolated vacationers in a Bali restaurant. And there were more, too many to remember or forget, in the lunatic’s crusade against civilization. Reis closed his eyes and prayed that his end would be quick.

The woman took his coat and the doctor set a cup of tea and a plate of sweets at his feet. The large man, the one who had given him the lighter, quietly entered and stood by the door, rifle at his side.

Bin Laden motioned Reis to move closer. He greeted the journalist as if they were old friends. "As-salam alaykum, Devrim. It is an honor to host you. Sit by me." His voice was weak but bin Laden spoke coherently, in a timbre different from the high-pitched monotone in his infamous video harangues.

Reis gently took the mottled hand and returned the greeting. Miraculously, fear and revulsion were receding, pushed aside by a reporter’s instinctive curiosity. He regretted he had no way to record what was about to take place.

The cancer robs my strength, bin Laden said. Forgive me if Amal interrupts with medicine for the pain. She is the most attentive of my wives. And the most beautiful. Embarrassed by the compliments, the woman shyly smiled as she filled a syringe.

I brought you here, Devrim, because I admire your work. Your writing presents Islamic history and culture in ways that force men to think. I seldom agree with your political positions but I respect your courage in taking them. You have written frequently about Al Qaeda. Today, you will learn more about its leader.

He began to cough violently, expelling red-flecked phlegm from his weakened lungs. It dribbled onto a cloth that Amal held under his chin. She gently wiped the drool from his lips. The ogre was dying in front of a stranger and Reis felt a surprising rush of pity. Although abhorred by the West, bin Laden, by some twisted logic, still inspired millions of ordinary Muslims. But psychopath or savior, he would die ignominiously in a bunker in Waziristan, soon forgotten by all of them.

Recovered from the interruption, The Prince spoke with fervor. "I welcomed death as the path to jannah, and I wished to die as a martyr. I regret that I will die in these mountains without fulfilling the quest. America and the West do not understand the quest. They resist it with force and we answer with the same. Al Qaeda’s actions are guided by Allah, his Prophet, and the Holy Book. The caliphate is our goal and there are peaceful ways to attain it. Unfortunately, our enemies respond only to violence. They condemn us because ours is harsher and more effective than theirs." He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

But you are not here for my sermons, Devrim. You can find them on the internet. He started to laugh but was seized by another fit of coughing. Amal gave him water and tenderly laid a Koran on his chest.

When bin Laden placed his hand on the book, Reis noticed a silver ring that clung to a spidery finger. It was stamped with an inscription and an Al Qaeda flag. Reis knew the history of the ring. Bin Laden had received it from Al Qaeda’s first shura. He had six wives but the ring symbolized the union he cherished most. It never left his finger for thirty years.

Clutching the Koran and lapsing between Arabic and English, bin Laden embarked on a journey. He was a mullah lecturing in madrassa, a soldier recounting the hardships of a campaign, a professor patiently explaining concepts to a class, an angry fundamentalist railing against Western indecency, a sheltered Saudi youth blessed with money and privilege. He praised the tenets of Islam, the Five Pillars and the Six Articles of Faith, and the righteousness of jihad in advancing them. He was grateful for America’s support against the Soviets and dismayed that the Great Satan had turned on him and made him its enemy.

He spoke contemptuously of the American president, a cowardly closet Muslim who had shamelessly bartered his faith for political acceptance. Strangely, he segued into French philosophers and poets, fondly citing their influence on his personal development.

Chin in hand, Reis listened intently. He asked polite questions and ventured an occasional comment, but he was disappointed. There was no revelation, nothing to make headlines, no secret to justify his abduction. Excepting the surreality of the whole event, there was little to report. He wondered again why he was chosen and he worried about what would happen when bin Laden finished.

From time to time, he stole a glance at Amal. It was a dangerous move but her beauty and mystery distracted him. Each time he chanced it, he found her returning his gaze. He imagined a message in her eyes.

An hour of halting conversation passed. Speaking had drained what energy remained in bin Laden’s frail frame. The drug had pushed him to the verge of delirium and he grew incoherent, the rambling a hoarse whisper as his overburdened lungs strained to keep pace. His chin dropped to his chest and Reis supposed the monologue had come to an end.

Suddenly, to the amazement of those in the room, bin Laden came awake. He stared at the ceiling, searching beyond it for a glimpse of jannah. There was sadness in his words.

I have followed The Prophet in a time of debauchery and disbelief. The road has been difficult and my flock has strayed from it. Al Qaeda committed acts which I approved and others have been done in my name, without my knowledge or permission. But all are grievous and I pray that Allah accepts the reasons.

Reis leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear what came next. Was this the revelation? There was penitence in bin Laden’s words. Not apology or atonement, but lamentation. Adrift in morphine and memories, he appeared to be making his peace before the end.

The world sees me as a heartless beast. It does not know me as a son, or as a husband, or as a father. I called you here, Devrim Reis, so you will remember me as a man. One who did well before he died. With a wave of his hand he sank back on the pillow.

But when Reis stood to leave, bin Laden began mumbling incoherently. The journalist moved closer as the dying man faintly repeated a phrase. Three or four syllables, over and over, each repetition more frantic than the last. Bin Laden was desperate, pulling feverishly on the journalist's arm. Reis gently tried to free it but bin Laden kept tugging, his burning eyes imploring him to understand.

The large man rushed over and pushed Reis aside. He wiped the sweat from bin Laden's brow and the tear streaks from his cheek. The Prince gave up the struggle and closed his eyes. The Koran slipped from his chest and he slept.

Outside the house, Reis filled his lungs with cool air, wiped the steam from his glasses, and lit a Gauloises. Ibrahim met him in the yard and walked him to the van. Three soldiers were already inside, smoking and playing cards. Relief flooded over him as he realized he might live.

The doctor handed him his coat. He insisted you be compensated. I have transferred a sum to your Istanbul account.

Reis was flabbergasted. Money in the bank instead of his head on a platter. It was an apt title for the most important story he would ever write.

Ibrahim read his mind. Until Allah welcomes Abu Hamza to his kingdom you are to write nothing and speak to no one about what you have seen. After his death, you are free of these restrictions. But not until the world knows he is gone. He nodded ominously toward the soldiers in the van. Until then, Al Qaeda will watch you and monitor your dispatches. We will kill you if you defy us. But I am certain we can trust you.

They said farewell and Reis looked toward the house. Amal stood in the doorway, her hair uncovered and hanging to her waist. He wanted to wave, to acknowledge their connection, but the soldier with the scar placed a hood over his head and prodded him into the van.

It was dark when they pulled into an alley behind the hotel. As Reis left the van the driver reminded him that his life depended on silence. Curiously, the soldier with the scar asked where he planned to go next. It was a strange question to which Reis did not reply.

The van backed from the alley, entered the roadway, and headed south. Afraid that it would return, he waited anxiously until it disappeared.

Mule

October 26, 2010

Super Waziristan Hotel, Miranshah, Pakistan

As he entered the lobby, the hysterical desk clerk rushed to meet him.

"Subhanallah! Thank heaven you are safe! We were worried when you did not return from your walk. We notified the police, who did nothing, as usual. What happened?"

Reis had no intention of explaining his absence. He was warned to keep his mouth shut. Nobody would believe him, anyway.

There was no cause for concern, Sartor. The interview ran late and the family invited me to spend the night. I finished up this afternoon. Right now, I need a shower and some rest.

The clerk found it odd that the journalist carried no notebook or recorder but he said nothing as he led Reis up the stairs to his room. Ring the desk after your rest and we will send up your dinner, he said. He pulled the drapes and left his guest alone in the darkened room.

Reis turned on the desk lamp and sprawled in a chair. Despite the chill in the room, he was sweating heavily. His clothing reeked of perspiration and tobacco, his wrists were chafed from the cords that had bound them, and his temples were throbbing. He opened a drawer where he had hidden a small flask. He guzzled the raki, savoring the burn in his throat and chest as the strong liquor worked its way down. After draining the flask he felt a little better. He slumped in the chair and tried to nap.

He could not sleep. The surreal adventure whirled through his brain. The abduction, the fearful journey, the bizarre conversation, the mysterious woman. His thoughts kept returning to bin Laden’s puzzling lament. Was the terrorist expressing sadness for his unconscionable deeds?

In a university religion course, Reis' professor had posed a perplexing question: who was least eligible for salvation? If Adolph Hitler, with pistol to his head and cyanide pellet on his tongue, had accepted Christ, expressed heartfelt remorse for his crimes, and pled for forgiveness, would God have absolved him? How many murders were forgivable? One hundred, one thousand, six million? Was there a numerical limit to God’s mercy?

Reis wondered if Osama bin Laden was asking the same question as he neared eternity.

He took a long tepid shower, scrubbing the filth from his body and rinsing his shirt and underclothes. He hung the clothes on the curtain rod and wrapped a towel around his dripping waist. He needed a smoke, so he fished through his coat for the Gauloises. Flattened within the crumpled plastic, one cigarette remained. He would have to smoke it slowly, make it last, and send Sartor for another pack in the morning.

When he reached for the lighter the jihadi had given him, his hand closed around something that did not belong. He pulled it from the pocket and placed it under the light. Secured by a drawstring, the brown leather pouch bore an Arabic inscription.

How did it get there, he wondered? The beautiful woman had taken his coat. She must have slipped the pouch into a pocket during the conversation.

When he emptied the pouch, two objects fell to the desk. He donned his glasses and examined them under the desk lamp. One was metal, the other was plastic. The metal one was a key for a post office or deposit box.

The plastic object was not a key. He removed its tip, exposing the serial connector of a flash memory drive, miniature storage for digital information. The markings on its cover indicated a sixteen billion byte capacity.

Stunned, he realized the reason for his abduction. The conversation was a ruse, its purpose to place the drive with an outsider. He was custodian of secrets that for some reason were entrusted only to him. He was a mule.

He nursed the cigarette as dots of light spread through the town below him. Miranshah was closing its doors and its residents were preparing for nightfall, girding themselves for whatever mischief the dark would bring. The journalist paced the room and pondered his options.

The flash drive wasn’t his responsibility. He had no obligation to learn what was on it. If he refused, he would avoid liability for what it revealed. He considered crushing the device and scattering the pieces on the street below.

But he was an investigative reporter and the drive undoubtedly held a story. He kicked himself for leaving his laptop in the apartment. Unraveling the mystery would have to wait until he got back to Sultanahmed. He would take the morning flight to Karachi and from there connect to Istanbul. He phoned the front desk and ordered a wake-up call.

After he took a sleeping pill, he collapsed on the rickety bed and surrendered to exhaustion. As he lay there open-eyed, waiting for the tablet to take effect, he thought about the last moments with bin Laden. What was The Prince trying to tell him? He tossed around, bothered by the phrase, hoping that sleep would erase the babble from his mind.

Three syllables, or four, all vowels. Woozily, he got up and went to the desk. On a page of hotel stationery he began to scribble sounds and syllables, arranging and rearranging their sequences. Nothing he wrote made any sense.

He crumpled the note in frustration and was about to drop it in the wastebasket when a snippet of conversation came to mind. The Prince had talked of French philosophers. Maybe the sounds were French.

Energized by the idea, he scanned the scribbles he had made, fighting the creeping narcosis, desperately looking for a word, or two. Four syllables, rhyming vowels. Four syllables, rhyming vowels. He had exhausted all the progressions when it dawned on him. The rhyme almost leaped off the page.

A ray tay lay.

Reis repeated the phrase until he was certain. When he was, he realized the nightmare was just beginning. The words were a command.

Arrêtez-les.

Stop them.

Last Rites

October 28, 2010

Somewhere in North Waziristan

When he finished weeping, Gafar Al-Ghamdi began the solemn preparation. He was grateful that Ibrahim had chosen him for the honor.

The huge Saudi was the first member of the entourage and the most devoted. For thirty years Abu Hamza was his spiritual leader and military inspiration. In Afghanistan they fought side-by-side against the hated Soviet invaders and their puppets. When Abu Hamza was exiled from Saudi Arabia, Gafar joined him in Khartoum, where they planned attacks in Yemen and guerrilla operations in Somalia. Together they fled the American onslaught and hid in the caves of Tora Bora until the bunker bombs drove them out. When shrapnel crippled Abu Hamza’s leg, Gafar carried him on his back for two days, refusing rest until they reached safe haven in Pakistan.

With fresh water from the well, he reverently washed the body, starting at the head and working down to the face and beard, then the upper right side, then the upper left, then the lower right, then the lower left. He repeated the ritual until the body was cleansed five times.

After that he bound the lower jaw to prevent it from sagging and carefully combed the hair. He perfumed the nose, knees, and forehead before placing a scented cotton ball into the rectum. He wrapped the body in three white cotton sheets and tied the kafan at head and feet with strips of white cloth, then wrapped two strips around the torso.

When he completed these duties he called the others to salat al-Janazah, the mandatory funeral prayer. The entourage respectfully filed into the bunker. Without an imam to preside, Ibrahim placed himself at the head of the congregation, his back to the flock and his face toward the qiblah. The group recited seven verses of Al-Fatiha, the opening book of the Koran, and they prayed for Allah to bless The Prophet and his departed servant.

When the service concluded, two soldiers carried the corpse to the van. A third loaded weapons, tools, and gasoline into a Land Rover while Al-Ghamdi placed explosives throughout the shanty and the bunker. In the late-morning sun, clouds of insects buzzed around the horse and goats dead in a field behind the house.

Shortly before noon, the entourage assembled in the sparse shade of the solitary tree. The men sat in a circle while Amal watched from the steps of the house. Ibrahim would speak before they broke camp.

The soldiers trusted the doctor with their lives. He treated their wounds and fevers, listened patiently to their problems, settled their disputes, and kept them supplied with the materials of their trade. He was more than a doctor. He had bravely fought the Soviets for five years and had the wounds to prove it. His military record made him one of them.

"Ahlan, sadiqui. Abu Hamza, Allah bless his soul, has left us. The Great Satan squandered its soldiers, its treasure, and its reputation to find him. America murdered thousands of Muslims in a senseless pursuit. It foolishly believed that killing one man would alter Allah’s will for the caliphate. Abu Hamza defied the Great Satan and denied it a victory."

The soldiers murmured their approval as the doctor went on.

His death must be kept secret. The Americans must not learn of it. As long as they believe he is alive, that he yet inspires warriors in every nation, they will keep spending lives and resources. If they learn he is dead, they will invent lies to claim the credit. His death will be their victory and their propaganda will poison the hearts of those less-committed than you.

He paused to let the words sink in. He knew the men approved of keeping America in the dark. But America was not the only threat.

There is another faction from which the secret must be withheld. That faction is Al Qaeda itself.

At this, a chorus of puzzled whispers ensued.

The vision of Al Qaeda was created by Allah through his messenger, Abu Hamza. But others blasphemed that vision and twisted Allah’s plan. Their jealousy of Abu Hamza made them our enemies and they used his absence to further their treachery. One of them hunts us as I speak.

There were angry noises and curses as the soldiers remembered. Ibrahim raised his hand to quiet them.

Mahoud is a traitor and Allah will punish him. But there are more like him and their number is growing. You must be alert to betrayal. You must keep the secret.

He called to Al-Ghamdi at the back of the group. Gafar, what are your plans? Al-Ghamdi rose to his feet. We go to Makeen. The Base is raising an army and trusted comrades are leading it. Again, we will fight the infidels. And, by the almighty Allah and his Prophet, we will keep the secret.

And the paper he gave to you?

I will deliver it to the council, as he ordered.

Ibrahim embraced the big Saudi and kissed him on both cheeks. He did the same with the rest of the soldiers. There was emotion all around as the group said their farewells. The soldiers returned to their duties while the doctor and Amal moved their belongings from the house.

"Salaam, Amal Ahmed." She was putting a suitcase into the Land Rover when Yousef Rajab approached. He seized her arm and whirled her around to face him. His leering grin told her what was on his mind. This wasn’t the first time he had touched her.

"Why do you hurry to leave your home? The Holy Book commands you to iddah. A widow must remain in her house for four months and ten days, mourning her loss. Your house is here, Amal."

He kept his grip on her arm as he inspected the interior of the vehicle, looking over the back seat and rummaging through the glove compartment. But I suppose a concubine is incapable of mourning, he sneered.

She wrenched her arm from his grasp. There was disgust in her voice and her emerald eyes. "I will mourn him as I choose. I will grieve for Osama at my own pace in a place far from here. And I pray that you die before you disgrace his burial with your presence. Ya kelba, ya gazma yibn ig-gazma! You dog, you son of a shoe!" She spit out the insult.

Infuriated, Rajab shoved her against the Land Rover. He gripped her shoulders hard and ground his filthy beard against her face. The nauseating odor of sweat and cigarettes seeped into her clothes. The stink of his breath made her retch. She gasped for air as she struggled to free herself.

The Prophet approved special treatment for harlots. His leer was now a menacing slit and his hand moved slowly along her hip. "Tell me, sharmoutah, to whom do you now belong?"

"Rajab!" Al-Ghamdi had watched the situation develop. There was always bad blood between them, but he had been obliged to honor Abu Hamza’s wishes. The leader’s death had freed him from the obligation. He rushed Rajab and threw him to the ground.

He placed a heavy boot on the Yemeni’s chest and glared down at him. I have warned you often, but I won’t warn you again. You soil the memory of our leader and you dishonor his wife. On this saddest of days, there is work to do and we have only begun. If you weren’t needed, I would kill you where you lie. He grabbed Rajab’s collar and yanked him to his feet. Return to your duties.

Rajab was livid but he knew better than to fight the Saudi without a gun or a knife. He brushed the dirt from his clothes and walked sullenly to the house. Al-Ghamdi had humiliated him in front of the others, like he had shamed him so often before. He promised Allah that Al-Ghamdi would pay for the embarrassments. All of them would be sorry. Especially the woman.

Ibrahim and Amal were first to leave. The couple drove northeast through the mountains and valleys, heading for civilization. The doctor had memorized landmarks that kept them on course. He drove fast and often recklessly because he wanted to be clear of the mountains before sunset. Bandits and Taliban patrols roamed them after dark.

Blue shadows deepened on the ridges above the valley as the soldiers prepared the camp for destruction. When the detonators were pushed, the blast reverberated through the hillsides and a fiery cloud of dust and rubble inundated the site. Subsequent explosions pulverized the shanty and the bunker below it. The men sped from the scene, Al-Ghamdi and two soldiers leading in the van, Rajab and another trailing in the Land Rover.

Halfway to their destination the narrow road was blocked by a rock fall. The drivers coaxed the vehicles down a steep grade, splashed into a stream, and followed its course until they regained the road. When Rajab buried his front axle in a pothole, the group tied chains to the Land Rover and tugged it free. The men were committed to a sacred task and the morning’s ugly confrontation was forgotten.

American drones owned the daylight so they timed their arrival for sunset. When they reached the grave the moon was rising and a chill crept down the hills on to the plain where Abu Hamza would rest.

They had found it in late September and visited it twice to prepare for the inevitable event. They dug a four-foot grave but it hadn’t been an easy chore. On the first trip, they hit limestone ten inches beneath the sand. All night they hacked at the limestone with pick axes and shovels and managed to dig another foot before they quit. On the second trip they brought a jackhammer and a compressor. The noise was tactically unwise, but they broke through the limestone in ten minutes.

As the men took shovels and prayer mats from the vehicle, Al-Ghamdi and a soldier lifted the shroud from the bed of the van. They laid it on the edge of the grave with its head facing the Qiblah. Reverently, they lowered the shroud into the pit and rotated it on to its right side.

Al-Ghamdi raised his arms to the sky. In the Name of Allah, we bury Abu Hamza, according to the way of The Prophet of Allah.

The hard men of Al Qaeda looked on as the big Saudi threw three fistfuls of sand into the pit. In silence, they filled the grave and smoothed the ground around it. After signs of disturbance had been cleared, the vehicles inched away. Two men walked behind, erasing tire tracks with brooms.

As dawn broke over the plain, the fighters rolled north to Makeen, a Taliban stronghold obliterated by drone strikes the previous year. Satisfied the area had been cleansed of militants, America had ceased the strikes and Al Qaeda had moved in.

At a peaceful spot at the edge of a deep ravine, the warriors halted for food and rest. The men were weary, hungry, and emotionally spent. After a meal of meat and olives, they spread their prayer rugs at the edge of the cliff. Kneeling at the precipice, they gazed into the blue void and grieved for the Lion Sheikh, the one who inspired the holy war of Al Qaeda. Al-Ghamdi began to chant and the others joined in, four voices beseeching Allah’s blessing. By the time he realized they were only four, it was too late.

The ridge exploded as Rajab shattered their prayers and brains. As rounds from his rifle tore through the prostrate supplicants, blood and skull fragments ricocheted off the rocky ground, raising a slick rosy mist that mixed with the cordite. It was over in seconds, but Rajab kept firing, jolting Al-Ghamdi into a macabre jig on a gore-soaked prayer mat. He continued shooting until an empty magazine ended the rampage.

He stretched out next to the Saudi’s corpse and reclined amid the carnage and shell casings. For some reason, the metallic scent of blood calmed him and allowed him to think clearly. With the soldiers eliminated, there were only two to be silenced. Allowing the doctor and the woman to escape was a mistake, but there was no way to stop them with the others around.

He rolled Al-Ghamdi over and searched his clothing, first the coat, then the trousers. Nothing. Angrily, he tore the gown from the body. A money belt was wrapped around the waist. His eyes lit up as he ripped off the belt and unzipped the pouch. In it was a pair of hundred dollar bills and the note Al-Ghamdi was to deliver to the council. Trembling with anticipation, Rajab unfolded the paper and cursed at what he found. The directions he wanted were soaked in blood.

He removed the silver signet ring from the stump of Al-Ghamdi’s finger. He had coveted the prize for months, hoping to claim it when Abu Hamza passed on, but the dying man had bequeathed it to his hated rival. Back in the van, he tore through his rival’s belongings until he found a Koran.

He dragged the bodies to the edge of the ravine and pushed them into the void. He disengaged the hand brake, edged the van over the cliff, and watched it tumble. It plunged straight down for a short distance, then hit a jagged slope and caught fire, pieces scattering in all directions as it smashed into the bottom of the gorge. After a few minutes, the ammunition cooked off and echoed around the canyon.

From out of nowhere a flock of vultures soared over the gorge. Undeterred by the din and the tracers, the raptors eyed their prey, spiraling down in ever-tighter circles as they descended to the carrion feast. Rajab watched them hop around, squawking and jostling among the bodies, deciding on their first meal. He smiled when they settled on Al-Ghamdi.

Yousef Rajab was a Salafist and a second cousin to Abu Hamza. Born in Yemen and inculcated in madrassa, he spent his youth in street fights and jail. He joined Al Qaeda not on religious principle, but to gratify his penchant for cruelty. He honed his talents by bombing magistrates, police, and civilians, watching with sadistic satisfaction as rescue workers scraped body parts from store front and pavement. Cold-blooded killing was more his style, but he fought in the line at Kandahar. It was there that he incurred the garish scar that marked him forever.

He had joined the entourage while it hid in Saa’na, when it was smaller than the final seven. Within a short time, the others questioned Abu Hamza’s wisdom in accepting him. Rajab pestered them with faulty recitations of the Koran, twisting its messages to justify his violence, arrogance, and whoring. He quarreled frequently with the soldiers and he openly lusted after Amal. Only Abu Hamza’s protection kept him from expulsion.

His contempt for Abu Hamza grew as Al Qaeda fractured into pieces that vied for its leadership. Rajab came to regard him as an ineffective invalid, a powerless relic whose time had passed, and he had eagerly awaited his death. Now that Abu Hamza was buried, the Yemeni intended to profit from his demise.

He changed his bloody clothing, gassed up the Land Rover, and queried the transponder he had planted in Ibrahim’s glove compartment. The signal placed the couple in the vicinity of Makeen, but he doubted it was their destination. Al Qaeda was entrenched in the town and its outskirts, its eyes everywhere and its penalties severe for women who traveled with unrelated men. Rajab guessed they would take the Jandola Road to Bannu, where there was a small airport and where Ibrahim had contacts.

As he drove through an afternoon storm, he decided he would kill the doctor first. Amal would pay dearly for her insults. He savored the ways he would pleasure himself with the woman before he cut