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Danyal did not answer right away. He thought about the answer for a long moment, then said, “We’ll deny we were ever in Kuhiya. We’ll explain that I sent Ali to get us weapons or something else, information—yes, that sounds better—and he must have fallen into a trap.”

  “And Bakhtiar will believe that?”

  “Why don’t we wait and see what happens? Bakhtiar must not know I’m going behind his back.”

  “All right, we’ll do that. Now, since we can’t return to Al-Abawia, where to?”

  “East, to Hayhala.”

  Javin frowned. “I’ve heard of Hayhala. It’s a deadly place.”

  “For you and Western spies. Not for me.”

  “You have ‘friends’ there?”

  Danyal grinned. “No, cousins.”

  “Cousins you can trust?”

  “With my life. They’ll find a doctor and another vehicle. We’ll be safe.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “After what happened back there, you can’t blame me.”

  “No, I don’t. But ... do you ever trust anyone?”

  “Very rarely. People have to earn my trust.”

  Danyal nodded. “We’re not very different, you know?”

  Javin did not answer. The Iranian was probably right. He was fighting for his life and to keep his country safe. Javin was doing the same. They were employing different means and methods, but aiming toward the same result.

  He shrugged and looked through the windshield. “What’s the best way to Hayhala?”

  “East for a few miles, then we turn north.”

  Javin glanced at the wide desert landscape stretching out on all sides. He nodded to himself. Let’s hope we don’t run into a checkpoint on route and that Danyal’s cousins aren’t hostile.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Ritz Carlton Hotel

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Claudia glanced down at her handcuffed hands. She was sitting on the comfortable bed of her luxurious hotel room, still robbed of her freedom. The interrogators had lashed out at her verbally with a torrent of threats, but had not laid a finger on her. She knew Javin had to be involved in the background, to account for the good treatment. Claudia had read about CIS or Mossad operatives nabbed by the Saudis. Words could not even begin to describe the horrific treatment those operatives had gone through. Claudia had suffered in similar circumstances when she had been briefly detained in Tunisia.

  She shivered as bitter memories washed over her entire body. Claudia brought the soft blanket closer to her body, then shook her head. That’s not going to happen again. No one is going to slash me with their knives.

  Claudia tossed the blanket away and stood up. She walked to the window and pulled the blinds away. The room was on the fourth floor, and the window overlooked the parking lot outside the front of the hotel. It was too high to jump, and her movements would be visible by anyone from below. If she tried at night, there was very little light, and she would likely fall, considering the small, slippery window ledges. Claudia had thought about an escape before, and her mind had run through different scenarios. They all ended up with her back in the room after being roughed up or thrown in jail and tortured.

  Javin, you’re taking too long.

  She paced the room and began to think about another escape plan. What if ... what if I overpowered the guards? Two guards always entered her room, whether it was to bring her food, a change of clothes, or any other reason. There were always two interrogators who entered her room. Yes, I can make this work. It will be difficult, but I can do it.

  She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. About an hour until lunchtime. I don’t really want to wait one more second. Claudia’s brain was already on overdrive. She walked to the bathroom and looked around. She opened the cabinet and smiled when she saw what she needed. Why didn’t I think of this before?

  Claudia returned to the room and kept pacing. She moved her body around along with her hands—as much as it was allowed by the handcuffs—and practiced the moves she was going to unleash on the guards. She tried again and again, choreographing them to perfection. She had only one chance, one opportunity, and she had to execute everything without a flaw. If even a small detail was out of place, the entire plan would collapse.

  Claudia continued her planning until satisfied she had mastered it. She returned to the bathroom’s cabinet. She picked up the supplies necessary for her escape plan and moved them closer to the front. She did not bring anything out, since one of the guards always checked the bathroom before letting her in. Claudia wanted to raise no suspicions. Then, she turned on the hot water and began to fill the bathtub.

  Ten minutes later, when the bathtub was almost full, she turned off the water. Claudia drew in a couple of deep breaths and knocked on the door. “Hey, guards, guards,” she shouted in English.

  “It’s not time for lunch yet,” came the reply in a firm and heavily accented voice.

  “I’m going to take a bath.”

  “Eh ... well, go ahead.”

  “No, I can’t. I need you to remove the handcuffs.”

  A brief pause, followed by indistinct murmurs.

  Claudia shook her head. This happened every time she asked for something. The guards seemed to debate whether to open the door or not. But they always did.

  The same guard said, “All right, we’re coming in. Stay back, away from the door.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the routine.”

  A rattling of keys, then the door swung open. The first guard came in the room. The second guard followed two steps behind with his weapon drawn.

  The first guard asked, “Now, what is it that you want?”

  Claudia dropped her eyes to the handcuffs. “Remove these so that I can bathe.” She stretched her arms toward the first guard.

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and uncuffed Claudia. “Don’t take too long, and don’t lock the door.”

  It was the same command. Claudia thought about returning a smart-aleck reply, then shook her head. If her plan was successful, both guards would no longer be a problem. So she shook her head and said, “Of course not.”

  She took a change of clothes from the closet and went into the bathroom. She closed the door, folded and moved the bathmat to the side, and opened the cabinet under the sink. She took the large glass cleaning container—her improvised weapon—then poured a generous amount of the shampoo on the marble floor. Next, Claudia dropped the shampoo holder along with its plastic bottles on the floor with a loud thud. “Ouch, no, oh,” she shouted and smacked the wall with her elbow to cause another noise.

  Heavy footsteps rushed toward the bathroom. “What happened?” asked one of the guards.

  “Help ... help me. I fell.” Claudia tiptoed behind the door without making a sound.

  A moment of hesitation.

  “The door is unlocked. Help me, please.”

  “I’m coming in.”

  The guard opened the door.

  Claudia swung the bottle.

  It smashed against the guard’s head. His feet slid on the slippery floor, and he fell against the sink.

  Claudia kicked him in the side of his head, then pushed him against the mirror. The guard’s head shattered the mirror, then he collapsed over the sink and onto the floor and did not move.

  “What was that?” shouted the other guard.

  She placed him as right behind the door, considering the direction of his voice. So she moved further along the wall, then got into the bathtub.

  The guard stepped inside the bathroom.

  With a swift punch, Claudia knocked the pistol out of his hand. Then she jumped out of the bathtub and behind the guard.

  He had anticipated her move. He swung his elbow, which caught the back of Claudia’s head.

  She lost her balance for a moment as the blow tossed her against the door. She returned a swift kick, followed by a knee to the guard’s stomach. He folded in half and tried to
grab the pistol that had fallen a couple of feet away.

  Claudia kicked him again, harder. Then she threw her body against the guard. His kneecap cracked against the tiled bathtub as she shoved him in. Then she pushed the guard’s head beneath the surface of the water.

  The guard tried to come up for air.

  Claudia struggled to hold his head down. She did not want to kill him, but she needed to incapacitate the guard, at least for a short time. Her eyes went to the pistol on the floor, but it was just beyond her reach.

  The guard pushed his head back and out of the water.

  She tried to push him down again, but realized the guard was too strong.

  He flapped his arm, splashing water. Then he raised his head and elbowed the side of Claudia’s head.

  She fell back and landed on the floor. She groped for the pistol, and her fingers found it.

  The guard climbed to his knees.

  Claudia leaned forward and pistol-whipped the guard. The hard blow caught him across the face, breaking his nose with a loud crunch. His head struck the tiled wall, and he slumped in the bathtub.

  Claudia drew in a deep breath. She was bleeding from a split lip and the left side of her face. She dabbed the wounds with a towel, then went through the guards’ pockets. She took their phones and wallets, retrieved the other pistol, and stepped into the room.

  Within a few seconds, she had wiped her face clean and had changed into new clothes. Then she put on a black abaya, the long loose robe that flowed down to her feet, and a black niqab, the headdress veil that covered her face, showing only her eyes. Now she looked like the other local women walking about the hotel.

  Claudia cast a sweeping gaze around the hotel room and bolted toward the door. She ran down the hall, then took the stairs. All right, Javin, let’s see if I can find you.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hayhala, fifteen miles northeast of Kuhiya

  Southern Iraq

  The trip to Hayhala had been mostly uneventful. The only worrisome moment came when they were nearing the small village. A trigger-happy sniper had taken shots at their SUV. Thankfully, he was not using a large .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle and was not the greatest marksman. One of the bullets punched through the side of Javin’s and Danyal’s SUV, but they had already climbed out of the vehicle and had sought cover among the sandy mounds along the road.

  A furious Danyal had threatened to walk to the village and beat the sniper to a pulp. Javin had stopped the Iranian, suggesting that they wait it out. The sniper fire had soon stopped, and ten minutes later a Humvee and a truck with a machine gun mounted on the bed left the village and neared the SUV. No one in the convoy fired a round. The gunmen spread out around the vehicles and began to assume fighting positions. At that point, Danyal called to the fighters from his well-secured position, informing them of who he was and of his cousins living in the village. One of the cousins happened to be among the fighters and recognized Danyal’s voice. The cousin, along with two other fighters, rushed to Danyal and carried him to the Humvee.

  The other fighters gave Javin looks dripping with suspicion. Danyal told them Javin was coming as an honored guest and under Danyal’s protection, a time-honored custom among Arabs and Persians. Danyal also explained how Javin had saved his life in the earlier gun battle. The fighters still kept Javin under close watch.

  He did not blame them. Less than a month ago, a team of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, or SAD, operatives had attempted to raid the village. They were looking for two suspected terrorists. After a brief firefight with the local militia, the SAD team had suffered two casualties and had been forced to retreat. The men the Americans were looking for had never set foot in the village.

  Two weeks prior to that attack, a Russian Tu-22M3 supersonic combat airplane had bombed the area, including a large section of the village. Again, the attackers were led by inaccurate intelligence about a jihadist group that had supposedly taken control of the village and was spreading across the region. The attack had killed more than half a dozen innocent civilians.

  When they reached Hayhala, Danyal was rushed to a makeshift hospital set up inside a small school. Javin remained outside, under the watchful eyes of two guards, who seemed to have been ordered to never leave his side. About ten minutes later, Javin was approached by an old man who was perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. He was dressed in an olive drab shirt and pants and was walking slowly and with a hunch, flanked by three young and muscular gunmen armed with assault rifles. The old man was clean-shaven and had a headful of gray hair and a deeply wrinkled face. He had a round rosy face that showed he was still in good health and had a few more years in front of him. That is, if no bullets or bombs ended his life.

  Javin straightened up as he walked to meet the militia leader.

  When the old man was about five feet away from Javin, the Canadian said, “Salam alaikum. Thank you for your hospitality and your protection.”

  The old man reached out and shook Javin’s hand. It was a strong, firm handshake, despite the man’s age. “Alaikum wa salam. A friend of Danyal is also my friend, our friend,” he spoke softly in Arabic.

  Javin nodded slowly.

  The old man continued, “My name is Shaheen Tehrani, and I’m the imam.”

  His name clearly indicated his origin from Tehran. The title of imam meant that Tehrani was the religious leader of the village, a position of power and authority.

  Tehrani said, “My people told me about you and the battle where our son, Danyal, was wounded. What took place?”

  Javin gave Tehrani a brief account of the firefight, leaving out the reason why Danyal had led the team to the village.

  Tehrani listened carefully and without interrupting. When Javin was finished, Tehrani asked, “What is the purpose of your mission to Iraq?”

  Javin had anticipated the question. “I’ve come in peace. I have no quarrels with you or your people. I’m looking for information.”

  “Why is that?”

  “One of my friends has been detained. That information will help with her release. It will also allow me to get to the man responsible.”

  Tehrani nodded. “Revenge, then?”

  “Retribution.”

  “It’s the same thing. They did something wrong to you, and you’re paying them back. Revenge is a powerful motivator.”

  Javin wanted to explain the big difference between the two words, but did not think it was necessary to correct Tehrani, especially in his guards’ presence. So Javin nodded and said nothing.

  Tehrani stepped closer to Javin. “This woman, the fighter you’re trying to liberate. Do you love her?”

  Javin recoiled at the unexpected question. “Eh ... I ... no, she’s ... she’s a close friend.”

  Tehrani gave Javin a knowing look. “If you came to these blood-soaked lands, all alone, hoping to earn her release, she has to be more than a close friend. Now, come, let’s break bread and discuss these matters further.”

  Javin stifled a frown. He wanted to return to his operation and head toward Baghdad, but he could not say “no” to the village imam and cause him deep embarrassment. In this hostile land, he could use all the help he could get to survive. “That is very generous and greatly appreciated,” Javin said with a nod. “Do you mind if I make a couple of phone calls? They’re quite urgent.”

  Tehrani nodded. “Of course, but don’t take long. I’m getting hungry.”

  “It will not take more than ten, fifteen minutes at the most.”

  “All right. Firuz will stay with you and bring you back to the house.” Tehrani cocked his head toward the bearded man standing to the left.

  “Good, thank you,” Javin said. I don’t need a babysitter, but if you insist.

  Tehrani turned around and left, accompanied by his security detail.

  Javin nodded at Firuz, who returned a slight head nod. “I’m going to step away, so I can do those calls.” He motioned toward a clearing about a dozen or so yards aw
ay and hopefully out of Firuz’s earshot.

  “Sure, sure, go ahead.” Firuz gestured with his hand.

  Javin pulled his phone out of the rucksack and dialed a number from memory. He was calling Muath, who was one of the best field operatives of the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate, or GID, and a trusted friend. Javin and Muath had worked on a series of operations in southern Syria. Recently, Muath had provided valuable assistance to Javin and Claudia in their exfiltration from Syria into Jordan.

  Muath was taking his time answering the call. The phone rang and rang, and Javin wondered if he would have to call again. But then Muath’s hurried voice replied, “Yes, yes, Javin. I’m here.”

  “Muath, what happened?”

  “Nothing. I just ... I couldn’t hear the phone ringing at first.”

  Javin frowned. He asked, “What’s the weather like?”

  It was the coded question in case Muath had been detained and had a gun pointed at his head. He was expected to give Javin a hint, which would, hopefully, go unnoticed by the captors, by replying, Not bad.

  Muath replied right away, “I’m not kidnapped, Javin. Relax. And you?”

  “Enjoying the Iraqi sun.”

  Muath snorted. “Really. You may be the only one in the country. I take it your meeting went well.”

  “It did. The plan’s falling into place.”

  “You’re on your way to Baghdad?”

  Javin glanced at Firuz, whose eyes were glued to Javin’s face. So he turned around and dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “Kind of. We’re taking the scenic route.”

  “But everything is okay, right?”

  “Yes, yes. We don’t have to involve Mossad yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “Well, we might still need them in the future.”

  Javin bit his lip. He hated lying to his teammate, but he also could not tell everything to Muath. Technically, I’m not lying, Javin told himself. Right now, I don’t need Mossad. I will, in five minutes, but not right at this moment. It was a lame excuse, and he knew it. But in this situation, it was the best he could do.