Read Online Hostile Fire by Keith Douglass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Keith Douglass
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radio.”
“What radio?”
“The one called SATCOM. The one you sent your spy messages on to the CIA.”
“I what? You must have the wrong captain.”
“Oh, no, you’re the right one. The radio proved that. We’re sure that your wife is innocent and knows nothing of your spy work.” She signaled and two men in long black coats came and walked beside them.
“We were delighted with the find of the SATCOM, anxious to learn its secrets so we could listen in on U.S. classified messages. You know what happened. When our men opened it without the proper code on the panel, it exploded, killing our three men and totally destroying the powerful radio.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will, soon. These two men have many questions to ask you. I’ll have to leave you now. The big black car just ahead is for you. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Salah Rahmani knew then that they must have been watching him for months. How else would they know about the SATCOM? He hadn’t checked on it for two weeks. He jolted away from the woman’s side and sprinted into the grassy park, pulled the small H&K P7 semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and turned just as the two special investigators fired their weapons. He felt one round hit his leg and he went down. He fired four times, putting one of the black coats down before he rolled to get out of the line of fire. But three of the heavy rounds from the second investigator’s pistol hit Rahmani in the back. One ripped through his spinalcord and another plowed through his lung and lodged in his heart. He died before he could fire again, and with him died his big dream of returning to the United States with his family.
7
The Farm
Langley, Virginia
At oh-ten-hundred that first morning at The Farm, Murdock, Rafii, and Ching came out of the wardrobe building wearing typical Iraqi clothing. All had on cotton pants, belts, white shirts on the outside, and a variety of hats: a New York Yankees baseball cap, one straw hat, and the other a felt floppy. Ching and Murdock had their faces, hands, and arms colored a light brown to more closely match Rafii. He grinned as he saw the transformation.
“Hey, you two can be my homeboys. We’ll do fine in Baghdad. I’ll be the front man and you guys are my muscle. We’ll sweep down one of those streets and take care of anybody who looks cross-eyed at us.”
A man they had met early that morning studied them. Slowly he nodded. He was Rolph Sedgewick, a Brit who came to the U.S. before the Second World War and had settled into the CIA as one of its European specialists.
“Yes, you’ll pass. I want you to live the parts you’ll play for the next two days. You’ll eat Iraqi food, hear Iraqi music, ride in an old Renault with Iraqi license plates, and speak Arabic whenever possible. He shifted into Arabic then and Rafii knew exactly what he said. Murdock caught the main idea, but Ching only frowned. The three moved toward the classroom building that Sedgewick had told them about in Arabic. Ching hesitated then hurried with them.
“Will somebody tell me what he said?” he yelped.
“He told us it’s class time,” Rafii said. “We start to get some basic instruction in things Iraqi so we can stay alive.”
“I’m in favor of that,” Ching said.
The classroom was set up to train half a dozen students,with chalkboard, wipe board, desks, projectors, and video. Their instructor met them and introduced himself.
“I’m Taliva, George Taliva for convenience. I’ll be your language instructor and hope to make you able to speak enough Arabic to complete your mission. First we have a general introduction to Iraqi society courtesy of some travel agency.”
They watched a video of the current street scenes in Baghdad, some of the tourist attractions, and a display of a holiday festival. When it was over, the instructor, an Iraqi who’d spent twenty years in Iraq, let them ask questions.
“I thought Muslim women
“What radio?”
“The one called SATCOM. The one you sent your spy messages on to the CIA.”
“I what? You must have the wrong captain.”
“Oh, no, you’re the right one. The radio proved that. We’re sure that your wife is innocent and knows nothing of your spy work.” She signaled and two men in long black coats came and walked beside them.
“We were delighted with the find of the SATCOM, anxious to learn its secrets so we could listen in on U.S. classified messages. You know what happened. When our men opened it without the proper code on the panel, it exploded, killing our three men and totally destroying the powerful radio.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will, soon. These two men have many questions to ask you. I’ll have to leave you now. The big black car just ahead is for you. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Salah Rahmani knew then that they must have been watching him for months. How else would they know about the SATCOM? He hadn’t checked on it for two weeks. He jolted away from the woman’s side and sprinted into the grassy park, pulled the small H&K P7 semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and turned just as the two special investigators fired their weapons. He felt one round hit his leg and he went down. He fired four times, putting one of the black coats down before he rolled to get out of the line of fire. But three of the heavy rounds from the second investigator’s pistol hit Rahmani in the back. One ripped through his spinalcord and another plowed through his lung and lodged in his heart. He died before he could fire again, and with him died his big dream of returning to the United States with his family.
7
The Farm
Langley, Virginia
At oh-ten-hundred that first morning at The Farm, Murdock, Rafii, and Ching came out of the wardrobe building wearing typical Iraqi clothing. All had on cotton pants, belts, white shirts on the outside, and a variety of hats: a New York Yankees baseball cap, one straw hat, and the other a felt floppy. Ching and Murdock had their faces, hands, and arms colored a light brown to more closely match Rafii. He grinned as he saw the transformation.
“Hey, you two can be my homeboys. We’ll do fine in Baghdad. I’ll be the front man and you guys are my muscle. We’ll sweep down one of those streets and take care of anybody who looks cross-eyed at us.”
A man they had met early that morning studied them. Slowly he nodded. He was Rolph Sedgewick, a Brit who came to the U.S. before the Second World War and had settled into the CIA as one of its European specialists.
“Yes, you’ll pass. I want you to live the parts you’ll play for the next two days. You’ll eat Iraqi food, hear Iraqi music, ride in an old Renault with Iraqi license plates, and speak Arabic whenever possible. He shifted into Arabic then and Rafii knew exactly what he said. Murdock caught the main idea, but Ching only frowned. The three moved toward the classroom building that Sedgewick had told them about in Arabic. Ching hesitated then hurried with them.
“Will somebody tell me what he said?” he yelped.
“He told us it’s class time,” Rafii said. “We start to get some basic instruction in things Iraqi so we can stay alive.”
“I’m in favor of that,” Ching said.
The classroom was set up to train half a dozen students,with chalkboard, wipe board, desks, projectors, and video. Their instructor met them and introduced himself.
“I’m Taliva, George Taliva for convenience. I’ll be your language instructor and hope to make you able to speak enough Arabic to complete your mission. First we have a general introduction to Iraqi society courtesy of some travel agency.”
They watched a video of the current street scenes in Baghdad, some of the tourist attractions, and a display of a holiday festival. When it was over, the instructor, an Iraqi who’d spent twenty years in Iraq, let them ask questions.
“I thought Muslim women
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