Violence of Action Page 5

  “Yeah,” Yi answered. “Buried in black right here in lovely Tajikistan.”

  “Wanna take a ride?” he said, shifting his gaze to Watts.

  “For what?” she asked. “CIA and the task force guys have been hammering at him for months. That well has run dry.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed with a shrug. “But what else have we got going on? Let’s grab breakfast with the guys and then head over, you and me, and shake that tree one more time.”

  “Yeah, if you want,” she said, but her tone suggested she felt the field trip to be a waste of time.

  “I want,” he said with a devilish grin as a new and fresh theory started to gel in his mind.

  CHAPTER 4

  new malden, united kingdom

  1702 local time

  Diba Nadar stepped out of the modest redbrick house and onto Cambridge Road feeling self-conscious and insecure without her headscarf. Qasim had instructed her not to wear a hijab after their wedding in London three months ago. At first, she’d felt liberated by the sudden and surprising edict from her husband, but that feeling vanished the first time she had gone outside without it. In that moment, with the invisible eyes of all her neighbors boring into her, she’d promptly turned around and walked straight back inside.

  She hadn’t even made it past the front stoop.

  Qasim, for his part, had laughed at her, which had only amplified her guilt and embarrassment.

  “Why must I give up my hijab?” she’d asked him, in a moment of frustration before an outing to the grocery shop.

  “Because in this country, the hijab makes you look like an outsider. I want us to assimilate—to blend in. Do you understand?” he’d replied.

  “But there are so many Muslim women here who wear their hijabs. In this country, it is okay to wear it. British people are accepting of different religions and customs.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Yes, but those people hate me because of the color of my skin, and the way I look, and the way I talk. Even without the hijab they will stare and judge me. There is nothing I can do to please those kinds of people except leave this country.”

  He’d nodded at this, conceding the point.

  “All I’m saying is that I am a Muslim woman and I am not ashamed of it. The hijab represents both my faith and heritage. I’m surprised it does not please you.”

  “I thought you would be happy with this freedom, Diba,” he’d said, staring at her with incredulity. “Would you prefer to return to wearing a burqa?”

  “No,” she’d snapped, heat rising in her chest.

  She hated the burqa. With her entire body and face covered, she felt subjugated and suffocated—her only view of the world a three-inch square fabric grill.

  “You see,” he’d said with a victorious smile. “You’ve already changed.”

  “The burqa and the hijab are night and day.”

  “Maybe so, but the matter is not open for discussion. While we are living here, you will dress and act in the Western style. I forbid you to wear an abaya, hijab, or a veil of any kind unless we are attending a mosque. End of discussion.”

  So, there it was. The decision had never been about her empowerment. It had never been about choice or personal liberty. It was about appearances. It was about deception . . . like everything else in their new British life together.

  She walked east, keeping to the sidewalk, all the way to High Street. At the intersection, she turned south onto the main shopping and dining avenue in town. Qasim had informed her he would be working late this evening and so not to count on him for dinner. The idea of eating leftovers and dining alone in their flat sounded dreadful, so she’d decided to go for a walk and get takeout from Nando’s—her favorite. She’d already decided what she would order: Quarter Peri-Peri Chicken with Spicy Rice and Macho Peas. Nando’s South African style cuisine was no substitute for authentic Afghan cooking, but she did love the spices and quality of the ingredients. Also, she never felt out of place inside as the patronage was ethnically diverse. East Asians, South Asians, Africans, and Arabs all frequented Nando’s along with white Briton locals. The atmosphere inside was always warm and inviting, and she’d even developed a quasi friendship with one of the Korean female cashiers—Soo Jin.

  The thought of seeing Soo Jin today brought a smile to her face.

  It was only a ten-minute walk to Nando’s, and that was if she took her time which she liked to do—peering in the windows of the shops, cafés, and restaurants along High Street. There was nothing analogous to the hamlet’s quaint little main street in Afghanistan, and having never traveled before moving to England, she was still quite in awe of her newly adopted hometown. On this one street, she could buy practically anything—every type of food, every type of beverage, every type of good or service. There was an optical store, a pharmacy, a bank, a hair salon, a hardware store, clothing boutiques, car repair, computer repair, a law firm, and a real estate service . . . Qasim had to explain all of these businesses to her as she’d never seen any of them before.

  Moving from her village in Afghanistan to London was a rebirth.

  I was a baby before, sheltered and naive. I knew nothing of the world.

  She glanced down at the handbag bouncing against her left hip and felt the pull of disobedience. Inside she’d stuffed her favorite headscarf—silky soft and dyed a deep purple, so dark it was almost black. With a mischievous curl of her lips, she retrieved it from her purse and paused in front of a shop window to look at her barely recognizable reflection. Already feeling better, she fixed the hijab around her head and neck. With a cleansing exhale, she turned on a heel and walked the final block to the restaurant.

  She pulled the door open to Nando’s and was greeted by a savory olfactory kiss—roasted chicken, tangy spices, and grill smoke. Her mouth instantly watered in anticipation. She’d intentionally timed her arrival before the dinner rush, so the normally robust queue of patrons waiting to order barely stretched to the corner. Behind the register, Soo Jin was working. Diba watched her friend greet the next pair of patrons and take their order. When Soo Jin smiled, Diba smiled, mirroring her friend subconsciously. And then as if an invisible connection between them was activated, Soo Jin turned and looked in her direction. The Korean girl’s face lit up and she gave Diba an animated wave.

  “Hi, Diba, how are you?” Soo Jin asked when it was Diba’s turn to order. Soo Jin was a native English speaker, born in New Malden, and spoke with a rapid-fire Londoner’s accent. But when she spoke to Diba, she slowed it down and enunciated her words more clearly, which Diba appreciated very much.

  “I very well,” Diba said.

  “Shall I key in your regular order?” Soo Jin asked.

  Diba nodded. “Two portions, one for my husband, one for me.”

  “Would you like it to go?”

  “Yes, please,” she said and, seeing nobody in line behind her, took the opportunity to loiter at the register, practice her English, and talk with her friend for several minutes.

  Learning English was difficult, but with nothing else to do all day while Qasim worked, she’d thrown herself into the task. Recently, she’d had her first dream in English. When she told Qasim about it, he’d congratulated her and explained that this represented a big milestone, because it meant her mind actively tried to process and internalize the vocabulary and structure of the language. Since then, she’d decided he was right because the words were coming a little easier to her over the last few weeks. She’d also asked him to speak to her in English in their flat, which he did most of the time until his frustration with her got the better of him.

  With her order filled and packed, Diba bid Soo Jin goodbye and left the restaurant. She turned right and walked to a nearby park bench located on the north side of the roundabout. She took a seat facing south, with the fading afternoon sun shining down on her. This was her favorite spot in New Malden. It was a simple place, where the pedestrian and car traffic converged and diverged, converged and diverged, all day long. The roundabout reminded her of a beating heart, circulating cars and people like life-sustaining blood. She liked watching the activity, without feeling trapped in the hustle and bustle herself. She’d only been to central London on a few occasions with Qasim, and it was too much commotion and noise for her. She didn’t like feeling crammed and bumping into people. She didn’t like anyone touching her except for Qasim.

  But she did like feeling part of a community.

  She unpacked the Nando’s bag, opened her to-go container, and leisurely ate her dinner on her lap, not rushing, chewing slowly to enjoy and savor both the food and the moment. And when she was finished, she tossed her trash in a nearby public rubbish bin and walked home the back way via Kingston and Cleveland Roads respectively. Before turning onto Cambridge, she removed her hijab and stuffed it in her handbag, just in case her husband surprised her by deviating from the schedule he’d given her earlier—something he did unexpectedly from time to time. Today, however, he was true to his word and did not return home until after nine p.m.

  She greeted him at the door.

  “I’m famished,” he said in English, after giving her a hello kiss. “Do you have dinner ready?”

  “Yes. A minute to warm for you,” she said, hoping he’d be pleased.

  “It smells like peri-peri chicken,” he called from the living room when she pulled the steaming food container from the microwave. “Did you get Nando’s?”

  “Yes,” she said as she transferred all the food to a wide bowl. She walked from the kitchen to the living room and handed it to him.

  “Have you already eaten?” he asked, accepting t
he bowl and silverware.

  “Yes,” she said and took a seat beside him.

  He nodded and devoured his dinner wordlessly in less than five minutes. As she watched him, she thought about their past three months together in London. Initially, during the days leading up to their wedding day, he had been sullen, impatient, and quick-tempered—almost cruel to her. But the night he’d taken her virginity, something changed in him. She’d cried and confessed her true and innermost worries and feelings, and instead of punishing her, he’d listened and taken them to heart. After that night, things between them had gotten better and better. They talked many times a day, and he often tried to make her laugh. He seemed happier lately. His confidence had bloomed and he’d received a big promotion at work.

  They never discussed the Americans, his best friend Eshan’s death, or the events in Mingora—events about which she still did not know the details. She’d not seen Asadi Bijan—the man who had paid for their wedding and all the travel expenses for her family to fly from Afghanistan to London and back—since their reception. Despite Bijan’s sophisticated charm, wit, and good humor, she knew who and what that man was—a dangerous and wanted terrorist. She didn’t know what Qasim owed this man or what he had pledged in fealty, but on their wedding night, she had begged Qasim to cut ties with the organization and live a simple and honest life.

  “I will try, Diba,” he had said, after embracing her as her first and only lover. “For you.”

  They had not spoken of it since—with her not daring to bring it up, while hoping for the day he’d confirm he’d kept his promise. But deep down, in the darkest corner of her heart, she knew the truth. Qasim had not tried to get out. He’d not done anything at all. He was simply biding his time until Bijan returned. This was why she was not allowed to wear her hijab. This was why Qasim so adamantly demanded she assimilate, blend in, and not draw attention to their presence in New Malden.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked, with food in his mouth.

  “Nothing,” she said with a polite smile. “How is your day?”

  “The correct way is to say, ‘How was your day?’” he said. “Is is the present tense. Was is the past tense.”

  “But this day still happens?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  “That’s true,” her husband said with a kind smile, “but your question concerns my workday which is over now that I am home. So, the correct question is to ask, ‘How was your day?’ Do you understand?”

  She nodded and looked down at her lap. “I understand.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re making good progress, Diba.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Very good progress.”

  She looked at him and met his gaze. “I am trying hard for you.”

  At this, he reached out and caressed her cheek.

  She saw a carnal fire burning in his eyes; his lust for her glowed like an aura around him.

  “Do you want to take me here?” she asked, switching to her native tongue while coyly undoing the top button on her blouse. “Do you want to take me now?”

  “Yes,” he said, quickly undressing himself and then her. They made passionate love on the sofa, both getting lost in the moment and very much enjoying themselves. When he finished, he propped himself up on his elbows and gazed down at her. “You are so beautiful.”

  Demure to the core, she blushed and looked away.

  But what he said next took her by surprise.

  His eyes scanned lustfully and unashamedly across her body, and she felt both modesty and arousal again at his gaze. She really did love this man, despite the uncertainty of her new life. “Maybe I should change my mind,” he said, running his eyes over her nakedness, “and have you wear the burqa here after all . . .”

  “What?” she said, the word a gasp in her throat. “Why?”

  “Because this beautiful body belongs to me,” he said, shifting his minacious gaze from her breasts to meet her eyes. “No other man should have the privilege to look upon any single part of you.”

  This candid admission sent a chill down her spine. Moments like this were proof of a growing duplicity inside Qasim. She was beginning to wonder if their time in the West was accelerating, not reversing, his transformation into . . . into . . . She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. She’d tried so hard to get him to let go of his anger and regret and see the good in this new life they were making together in England. On the outside he almost had her fooled into thinking she’d succeeded. But on the inside, hate festered, and she feared what would happen if it consumed him. If he embraced revenge with the same passion that he embraced her, what would become of their partnership? Would she go from being a wife to a slave? Was her fate to become the property of a terrorist—a woman damned for the rest of her days to live a life of fear, subservience, and punishment?

  I cannot permit that to happen.

  I will not permit it to happen.

  Looking at her husband now, it was clear that this honeymoon period they’d been living was nothing more than the calm before the storm. Qasim was just biding time until the terrorist prince returned. And when he did, Diba was certain Asadi Bijan would come like a hurricane—leaving nothing but pain and devastation in his wake.

  CHAPTER 5

  pajhwok marble and talc stone processing factory

  factory road—just north of vahdat avenue

  five miles west of jsoc compound

  qurghonteppa, tajikistan

  1115 local time

  Chunk couldn’t help himself as he scanned up and down the corridor for threats.

  Objectively, he and Watts were perfectly safe, but that didn’t matter. That was the unnerving thing about black sites, they were so good at being what they were that he never really felt comfortable inside one. Everyone was in a NOC, being disingenuously genuine. The site itself, like this operational marble and talc factory, was living a double life too—on the one hand producing actual salable products while on the other hand housing some of the world’s most dangerous terrorist criminals. The irony of him disliking the duplicity of black sites was not lost on him, as he himself was visiting this installation under a NOC. Even during intelligence-gathering trips to partner facilities like this one, he had a mandate to protect his unit’s anonymity.

  Isn’t that always the way of it, he thought. It’s okay when I do it, but not okay when other people do.

  “This way,” their CIA escort said, turning left and leading them down the hall. Moments later he stopped in front of an elevator. Once inside, he inserted a key card from a lanyard around his neck into a security reader slot and pressed an unlabeled button at the bottom. It turned from red to green and the elevator began to quickly descend, traveling much farther than the twelve-foot distance between a single floor.

  “I’m Ralph, by the way. Ralph Mitchell,” the spook said, now that they were in the elevator. “You’re with one of the task forces?”

  “Something like that,” Chunk said.

  “Any trouble finding us?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Easy day. You guys got GRS here with you?”

  The man laughed. “Most definitely, my friend. GRS is a team of six, but we have organic operators from Ground Branch as well—another half dozen guys in garrison here for other operations, but an important part of our security. We try to keep a low profile. So far, the NOC is holding up, but you can never be too careful. Plenty of bad guys, even up here in Taji.”

  “Tricky business, NOCs,” Chunk said, his mind flashing back to the night in Mingora when their DIA contact in a NOC got blown up on a rooftop.

  The elevator stopped and the doors swished open, then Mitchell led them into a dark room that for some reason reminded Chunk of the prison block scene from Star Wars: a large circular desk with laptops and multiple TV screens and two long dark corridors leading away from the desk.

  “Holy shit, is that Whitney fucking Watts?” a male voice said.

  “Danny?” Watts said, lighting up. “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

  Chunk watched as she gave the tall Black man a warm hug. The guy was dressed in black jeans and a 5.11 tactical plaid and wore a GLOCK 19 in a holster on his right hip.