Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

2300 June 3, 2013

Amman

The woman's scream echoing off the apartment building startled him. From his desk of computer monitors and security camera feeds crammed in a bedroom of a multi-story luxury apartment, he had watched her stagger down the access road into the middle of the dimly-lit cul-de-sac as if she were drunk or in distress. Now she screamed, a woeful, distraught, and shrill, "Waleeed!" He checked the monitors for other signs of activity before jumping to the window for a cynical yet cautious peek outside. She wailed again, "Waleeed!"

He had been on the lookout for any hint of police activity near or around the three-story apartment building. He hadn't expected to see anyone in a niqab that night, and he hadn't expected anyone to be screaming hysterically. A jilted woman, most likely. He scoffed at her misery; he'd seen it all before. A husband with his friends smoking shisha, laughing at a promise that he wouldn't beat her if they married. Or more likely, Waleed was with other women at the open-air hookah lounge on Prince Faisal bin al-Mohammad Square that U.S. and British embassy personnel and other Western tourists frequented.

Nizar pressed his faced against the window frame to enjoy the spectacle of a woman in despair but jumped when three pistol reports fired in rapid succession. A classic double-tap plus one reverberated sharply in the basement room directly below him. Although quite accustomed to the sound of gunfire, he still flinched. In the nanosecond after the final round's echo faded Nizar knew he'd been tricked. The spike of adrenaline shut down his flight or fight response. In its place, a thousand jumbled thoughts flooded his overloaded mind, as if a grizzly had suddenly stepped into his path and he couldn't immediately resolve whether to flee, play dead, or just piss all over himself.

Only one of the men in the room downstairs had a weapon when Nizar had left them earlier in the evening. The nearly unconscious man he had tasered, stripped, smashed his genitals with a knee, and placed in the wooden stock didn't have a weapon. And the man he'd been assigned to protect with his life didn't need a pistol. There was no need for additional firearms when there was an antiquated Kalashnikov, an early 7.62mm AK-47, resting against a chair or when there were tools of torture and a Panasonic videocamera to film beheadings in the underground room. His hyperactive mind sorted these facts; the gunshots and the woman decoy outside could only mean three things: someone else was in the building; that person had likely killed his master; he had to escape the trap that had been set by an unknown enemy.

Security forces or policemen would arrive soon, if they were not already rolling down the road to the cul-se-sac. He snatched his laptop computer from the desk, grabbed his personal 5.45mm AK-74 and raced downstairs to the basement.

When he reached the landing he peered cautiously around the door, his assault rifle leading the way. He heard the heavy footfalls of someone running up the inclined driveway leading out of the underground garage. He heard a man's voice — an Amriki — in the distance yell, "Get in! Get in!" Nizar ran in the opposite direction, to the torture room where he found his master on the floor with the back of his head blown apart. The man's good eye had been obliterated. Two entry wounds in the middle of his forehead could have been covered by a half-dollar; the exit wound was the size of a cantaloupe. There was no need to check to see if the man was alive. The stock was empty; the infidel was gone, along with his clothes, watch, and cell phone. Fresh blood covered the floor beneath the torture stock; a bloody 18th-century Persian-forged, Damascus steel sword lay in the middle of the spreading red pool.

The former CIA Director may have exacted some revenge on his nemesis in the torture room, but there was no time to assess the situation further. From the wall opposite the camera, Nizar pulled down the two black flags of al-Qaeda and lit the ends with a fiery Bunsen burner used to heat piercing instruments of torture. He quickly draped one flag over the body of Bruce Rothwell, the former Director of Central Intelligence. Nizar dragged the remaining burning flag into the garage, opened the door of the nearest vehicle, and tossed it inside. As flames shot out of the room of death and the nearby vehicle, Nizar threw his computer and weapon into the front seat of a BMW, sped up the ramp, and raced out of the compound. He never glanced into the rearview mirror; the mission behind him was complete, although a total failure. Now he had to avoid the Jordanian police and the dreaded Mukhabarat and get out of the country.

* * *

Hiding behind dark sunglasses as the sun arose, Nizar Qasim al-Rimi scanned a fresh copy of The Jerusalem Post. He had escaped the manhunt for a suspected terrorist at the border checkpoint. He was at ease as he sipped tea at the little corner Tel Aviv café not far from the army base. His cover as an Israeli Special Operations soldier didn't seem out of place as other military men and women were walking about or entering and leaving the heavily fortified entrance gate of the military installation. His thick neck oozed out of a black polo shirt that hid oversized pectorals and biceps. He looked the part of an elite soldier on a sabbatical in the dirty suede boots and tan cargo pants favored by the Sayeret, the Israeli Special Forces within the Israel Defense Forces.

He was safe for the moment; he finished his tea and focused on the newspaper.

The raid at the Amman Marriott was front-page news, half-panel above the fold. Suspected terrorists had been reported to be occupying the top floor of the hotel, but somehow they were able to escape the dragnet designed to capture them. Jordanian secret police found the suspected get-away vehicle casually parked in a lot at the Dead Sea Resort. It was an armored black BMW 750 with blacked-out windows, identical to the ones driven by the leaders of the Mukhabarat as well as the Jordanian royal family. On the last page of the paper below the fold was a report of a fire that had consumed a suspected al-Qaeda safe house. The remains of a body were found in the debris.

More tea and pastries were served. Nizar thanked the merchant in Hebrew, folded the newspaper, and tossed it on top of the tiny bistro table. He extracted an Israeli passport from a pocket and tapped it on his pants leg as he took in his surroundings. It was getting warm. It was time to leave. He hoisted a camouflaged backpack containing his laptop computer onto his shoulder. He should be able to hitch a ride into town. Maybe the driver would even drop him off at the airport. The thought of not killing a dozen Israeli soldiers saddened him.

With the principal dead, his masters in the United Arab Emirates had ordered him back to the Persian Gulf state. He had some explaining to do.

CHAPTER 2

2300 June 6, 2013

Dubai

The effeminate tall man looked down at the heavy cream cardstock with the single digit in the middle: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]. What the Arabic numeral for "one" lacked in substance, it made up for in coded details which were only understood by those in the know. He had received an "extraordinary invitation" from The One. The bearer of the invitation was to report to the top floor of the organization no later than one a.m. Standard protocol; if another time was warranted, it would have been specified. The expected dress was the white two-button, high-collar silk thobe — those special garments favored by royalty — featuring full sleeves and unadorned with stylish stitching or borders. Standard agal and silk keffiyeh. Watches were optional. Nothing more; nothing less.

Extraordinary invitation was also the code phrase that set the logistics and clandestine process into motion. He could expect to depart on the foggiest of nights when the stillness of the city was so absolute as to be both eerie and otherworldly; mere mortals could not see to drive in such conditions, making travel more than unsafe.

The city stood still until the fog dissipated. A driver would fetch the holder of the card and deliver him to the appointed destination in the strictest secrecy and in total silence. The bearer of the card was expected to climb into the middle vehicle and take his assigned seat. No speaking. Redundant black curtains would seal off the windows and separate the driver from the riders. The specially-equipped automobiles would take the most direct route — no deliberate circuitous routes to confuse the passengers. All vehicular and pedestrian movement would come to a halt. The One always found ways to overcome all obstacles.

At half past midnight the man, with slight apprehension, climbed into the second of three BMWs lined up in the underground courtyard to be driven to the auspicious meeting with The One.

The One. The man took care not to frown or make a face lest there were surveillance cameras in the palace. Surrounded by black curtains, he remembered the feisty imam in his madrassa who said, "Allah called himself The One; Al-Waahid. The One has no second, has no partner, has no peer, and has no rival." The man recalled enunciating the numbers from his childhood in Indonesia: Waahid, ithnaan, thalaatha ... one, two, three. ... He could still recite the words faithfully, but that was all the Arabic he could remember. Riding up the elevator and seeing the floors slowly count up, he recalled making the delicate numerical marks, purposefully flicking the ink onto paper that was more vellum than parchment: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] ... 1, 2, 3. His teacher was pleased with him that day. The scrawny mulatto boy wasn't especially smart, but he was especially lazy and always had to be cajoled or threatened to perform the most basic recitations or lessons. At the height of his public approval, he would tell the reporters who ardently held onto his every syllable that "there had always been a lazy streak in him." He had rubbed shoulders with kings, presidents, billionaires, celebrities, sheikhs, and the heads of intelligence agencies and science foundations. He was once the most powerful man in the world. Now he was hiding in a well-furnished and well-provisioned palace out of the public eye, and was, by every measure, a consummate failure. The man changed his expression and waited for what seemed like an hour for the elevator door to open.

They had extracted every bit of useful intelligence from him and had allowed him to live. A modicum of fear left his body; he had worried that his life had been placed in extreme jeopardy by the very country he once led. He was both impressed and relieved that his host had kept his word to protect him.

Of course, he had paid handsomely for this hospitality while he was in office. The previous Democrat President had taught him how to become a billionaire in politics. With direct access to the national treasury and through secret accounts that funded special projects, he was able to reward his friends with billions of American taxpayer dollars. He was not alone. Dictators from around the world sent their government's money to the UAE for safekeeping and as payment for keeping them safe when they were forced to abdicate their posts and flee for their lives.

When elected he had promised to shutter the offshore terrorist prison at Guantanamo Bay, but those stinking Republicans in Congress had prevented him from taking unilateral actions to close the facility. Still, he found a way to nearly empty the prison in Cuba as well as fund his emergency billion-dollar golden parachute.

The elevator door finally opened and the man made his way to the conference room and took his assigned seat. He noticed the opulence of his surroundings and mused at the source of the funds, at least for a part of it.

His Secretary of State transferred billions of dollars from one of several secret accounts at the U.S. State Department to the UAE, under the auspices the emirs would take the GITMO prisoners under some benign and publicly disavowed terms and conditions. The White House press secretary insisted that there "was no quid pro quo" regarding payments and transfer of prisoners or hostages. The American public and Congress were unaware of the secret accounts at the State Department to facilitate "special projects." The going rate for a single al-Qaeda leader was a hundred million dollars.

American hostages garnered the same rate. Iran indiscriminately took hostages and held them for ransom. The government's intelligence service snatched stupid American men on tourist visas for the most arcane of infractions, declaring they had been captured for spying and would be executed for espionage. If the women were beautiful they would simply disappear. The American press would be outraged only until the next news cycle.

The UAE took in the GITMO terrorists and received their handling fee; Iran took hostages and received similar payments. The man liked round numbers. Everyone got paid. Especially him.

Once the monies were successfully transferred, his only concern was if his friends in Iran and the UAE would hold up their end of the bargain. These kinds of special arrangement had been in place for over a century.

* * *

In the late 19th century the tiny and crucial Port of Abu Dhabi garnered the notice of the rapacious, post-revolutionary France and the imperious Russian Empire. Suddenly feeling very exposed to becoming an acquired Persian Gulf satellite to the ambitious European countries, the British government established formal relations and closer economic bonds to the Trucial Sheikhdoms in an 1892 treaty. The British government provided a presence and promised to protect the Trucial Coast from all aggression, primarily by sea, and to help in case of land attack. The sheikhs received protection too, but the cost of doing business with the white men of Great Britain included the British provision and prohibition: to be a member of our joint venture, we shall provide protection; you must abandon your slave trade. Signed by the rulers of Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, and the other emirs of the emirates, the underlying treaty meant an important source of income — the trading of humans — would be lost to the sheikhs and other merchants. In true Arabic fashion, some sheikhs ignored and violated the British mandate and drove their slavery industry underground.

When the newly independent Government of India imposed heavy taxation on pearls imported from the growing state of Abu Dhabi and other states in the Persian Gulf, one of the Abu Dhabi's most successful pearl merchants drove the previously thriving pearling industry underground and underwater. The Abu Dhabi leaders developed and deployed the first generation of submersibles to harvest pearls and move precious gems and minerals out of the sight of their British overlords. Other trade was acceptable. British magistrates set up a development office, the British-Abu Dhabi Trading Company, to help some small development projects in the emirates.

The seven sheikhs of the emirates formed a separate council innocuously named the Regional Operations Council, or The ROC, to coordinate matters between themselves and the British. It became the only operation not run or supervised by the British.

By the mid-1930s, the ruler of Abu Dhabi had created an underworld of proscribed activities. He smuggled everything: precious metals, gemstones, ivory, pearls, treasures and antiques from lost civilizations, rare woods, and of course slaves. The most valuable slaves were women of color; prices were set based on hair and skin color. The Abu Dhabi emir also created an industry to hide the deposed, the former dictators, the deviants, the deported, the deserted, and others who desired or needed to be removed from the public eye. Refugees, sojourners, criminals, thieves, and pilgrims found temporary respite from pirates in Abu Dhabi at great cost.

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "Blown Cover"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Mark A. Hewitt.
Excerpted by permission of Black Rose Writing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---