Desert Song: a novel of the lonely struggle of the women of Afghanistan

SONG

PROLOGUE

As he awoke that morning from uneasy dreams he realized that he was less than twenty-four hours away from judgment. Ian Henderson, a young and ambitious chemical engineer looking to promote himself in a fast-paced, competitive world, had come to Saudi Arabia a month ago. He was on a two-year assignment and was hoping that his wife arriving from Houston the next day would stay with him in this country.

It was a blisteringly hot day; the storm for the past three days had obliterated the sun, filling the sky with fine sand—especially in the afternoons with the occasional violent gusts of oppressive, dry, hot and dusty wind blowing in from North Africa, rattling the housetops and agitating the lampposts along the streets.

Time here moved slowly and at dusk the dust storm finally relented and a bright orange sun emerged against the clearing skies as if to glorify its victory, but then quickly began to sink into the western horizon. The myriad reflections of the setting sun turned the red sand dunes of Arabia into several shades of purple. The eerie sounds of prayer calls shouted by Mullahs from the white minarets of several mosques in Dhahran, the oil capital of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, drifted on the warm, Arabian winds to call upon all believers to attend the Maghrib, or evening prayer.

Soon after, a hush descended over Dhahran. People shuffled slowly, heads bowed, toward their neighborhood mosques. They wore the traditional long, loose-fitting white robes and red-and-white checkered head-cloths held in place by a band of thick black rope wrapped twice around their heads. There was no sound, human or mechanical, because, as always at prayer times, most traffic came to a standstill. Life in Saudi Arabia froze at prayer times, every day, five times a day.

Once again, the nation stood silent, as it had for centuries.

It was the 10th of September 2001 and Ian was at his villa in Dhahran making preparations to welcome his wife, Liz, and their two-year-old son Nathan. He had filled every room in his villa with fresh flowers and wished he had on hand champagne to welcome Liz but alcohol was illegal in Saudi Arabia. Their flight, due in at two a.m. tomorrow, was arriving from Houston via London. Ian spent the evening with some friends and later stayed up watching a movie on his TV. All evening he felt this curious sensation that his life was about to change forever.

At two a.m., Ian pulled his company car into the car park at the Dhahran international airport. As he left his car, he noticed a lone Mynah bird perched on a low concrete wall and remembered that one of his Indian colleagues at work had once told him that seeing a lone Mynah bird foretold a sudden death in the family. A superstition that only fools believe in, thought Ian, shaking his head. He viewed the TV monitors displaying arrival times and again shook his head, this time in disbelief, when he saw the BA flight from London showing Cancelled. He stood staring at the display for a moment, perplexed, then went over to the information desk.

The scene there was chaotic. A large crowd, bunched up like a rugby scrum, surrounded the information desk, shouting, screaming, and demanding answers to the BA flight cancellation. The woman stationed at the information desk was fielding the heavy barrage of questions coming in a cacophony of languages: Arabic, Urdu, Hindi, and English.

Ian smiled. Typical, he thought as he picked up a public phone and called the information desk.

You’ve got to shout, sir. I can hardly hear you, the woman said into the phone, turning her back to the crowd.

The BA flight from London—what happened? Ian shouted into the mouthpiece as he stared at her back from across the terminal.

It was cancelled, she shouted back. Passengers have been rebooked on an alternative flight arriving later at ten this morning, but at the Riyadh airport.

The flight is coming into Riyadh?

Yes sir.

And how, oh, never mind. Thank you.

Riyadh was over three hundred miles away. Liz would be stuck there; he must get to the city before ten a.m. Ian headed to the Saudi Airline reservation desk and asked about flights to Riyadh. The first flight, at seven a.m., was sold out; the second flight was scheduled for one p.m. He had no choice but to drive to Riyadh, he decided. He had driven to Riyadh before, but always in the daylight. In the daytime it was easier to watch for camels wandering the highway. Hitting one of the one-ton beasts in a speeding car meant certain death, and not just for the camel.

Ian returned to his car, drove to the nearest gas station to top up his gas tank, bought a large coffee, and then headed to Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia.

It was two-thirty. The sky was clear, the moon was shining bright, and the stars were blinking benignly. The moonlit sand dunes looked magical. Traffic was light on the highway. Ian found the solitude soothing. He took a big gulp of coffee and shifted in his seat to make himself comfortable. The hours slipped by. The moon and the stars continued their downward arcs toward the horizon.

Gradually with diminishing darkness dawn approached and streaks of lighter-colored clouds slashed the eastern sky. The dark silhouettes on the horizon now emerged as a multitude of yellow and red sand dunes. Another hour or so and he would arrive at the Riyadh international airport.

Ian pulled into the airport car park as the digital clock on the dash changed to eight a.m. Once inside the terminal building, he was relieved to learn that there was a BA flight scheduled to arrive from London at ten a.m. He set the alarm on his wristwatch and curled up on a bench seat to catch a couple of hours’ sleep.

Fate had written that this would be his last sleep. Death awaited him this day.

His alarm beeped exactly at ten. He sat up, interlaced his fingers behind his back, and stretched his arms back to limber up his stiffened body. He wiped residual sleep from his eyes, then rose and found a washroom, where he splashed water on his face. Feeling refreshed, he was ready for a coffee.

Sipping cautiously at a steaming cup of coffee purchased from an airport kiosk, Ian made his way toward the arrivals area and stood with others who were waiting at the railing there. It was a long wait. Just a few minutes past noon, Ian saw Liz coming through the sliding glass doors, pushing a sleeping Nathan in a stroller. A uniformed Pakistani porter followed her, pushing a trolley filled with three large suitcases, a baby cot, and a large makeup case. Ian could see she was flummoxed. He waved enthusiastically as Liz flashed him a big smile.

They kissed quickly and cautiously, as he was not sure if the locals would be offended by such a Western way of showing affection. Public display of affection was punishable by law in Saudi Arabia. Holding hands or kissing in a public place could result in a fine, lashes, imprisonment, and even deportation.

Hi, Ian said softly and gently squeezed her hand. He reveled in the sensuous touch of her soft hand.

Hi—look at your tan, she exclaimed in an excited voice. Then, glancing around and narrowing her gaze, she asked, So, this is Riyadh, they diverted our flight, do you know why?

Not really and I’m afraid you’ve another five hours of a car journey ahead of you. You can sleep and I’ll drive.

We can share the driving, I’m not tired.

Ian laughed and said, This is Saudi Arabia. Women aren’t allowed to drive.

Not allowed to drive? She frowned.

Never mind that, I’m quite okay to drive.

People were pouring out of the arrival gate with their overloaded trolleys. Ian gestured to the porter to move away from the busy arrival area and he pushed the stroller toward a quieter spot. As they stepped away from the noisy crowd, Ian stopped and knelt down beside Nathan, cleared his hair away from his face, and kissed him on his forehead. Then he rose and, pushing the stroller, indicated for the porter to follow him to the car.

While Liz held Nathan in her arms, the porter packed the three suitcases and the stroller in the trunk. Ian placed Nathan’s cot in the back seat and secured the cot with a seat belt. Liz gently nestled Nathan into his cot. He moaned just for a moment, but remained asleep.

Ian gave twenty Saudi riyals to the porter, who protested vigorously. He stuck four fingers of his right hand into Ian’s face and demanded more—he wanted forty riyals, which was more than ten dollars. Ian did not want to argue so he stuffed another ten riyals into the porter’s hand. The porter continued to curse, but then, that was the ritual they always enacted, no matter how much they were paid. Ian knew that and did not give the man any further attention.

He rolled his Nissan Maxima out of the car park and joined the traffic on the ring road heading toward the highway to Dhahran. Twenty minutes later he had cleared the Riyadh city limits. The sun was high in the sky, the sunlight blinding.

Why don’t you take a little nap and I’ll wake you up when we get closer to the city, Ian suggested. He had seen Liz closing her eyes as jet lag caught up with her. It’s a long trip.

Okay, maybe I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes and then I want to talk to you about Saudi. Liz put her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. She reclined her seat and settled in, closed her eyes and soon fell into a deep sleep.

Ian concentrated on driving and watched several hours slip by. Mile after mile of desert rolled past as the car sped away from Riyadh towards Dhahran. Suddenly, Ian heard a thudding noise outside the car and felt the steering wheel wobble.

Oh, shit, Ian said loudly, waking Liz. He quickly slowed the car then brought it to a complete halt on the side of the highway. The highway and surrounding area were deserted; this was the largest sand ocean in the world.

What? Liz asked, rubbing her eyes.

We have a flat. All those goddamn trucks on the road leave behind all sorts of crap. Ian’s voice was rough with exasperation.

Is that all? You scared me. Don’t you have a spare? Liz asked.

Sure. But I wanted to give you a nice reception. So far we’ve had a delayed flight, a change of airports, and now this. He stared angrily out the window.

Tell you what—you change the tire and then when we get home, I promise you a great evening, Liz said playfully, stretching her body to relax its tired muscles.

Ian glanced at her bare arms and slender body and felt a stirring in his heart.

They stepped out and walked to the back of the car. The rear driver side tire was as flat as roadkill. Ian pulled all the suitcases from the trunk to access the tools and the spare, and also to make the car a little lighter. He pulled out the spare and searched for the jack.

Damn.

Now what, the spare is flat too?

These goddamn company cars are from rental agencies; there’s always something missing. Would you believe we don’t have a jack in this car?

What’re we going to do? Is there a breakdown service around? she asked.

I’m afraid we’re in the middle of a desert. There are no breakdown services this far out of the city. We’ll just have to wait and hope another car comes by soon.

Ian kept the engine and the air-conditioning running and wondered how long they’d wait before help arrived. About twenty long minutes later, he noticed a car approaching at a high speed. He walked a few yards in the direction the car was traveling and waved both hands. He released a sigh of relief when he saw the car slowing. A black Toyota Land Cruiser finally came to a stop about six feet from him.

A man dressed in the traditional Arab robe stepped out of the car and greeted Ian in the customary Arabic way: Assalaam Alaykum, Subah Al Khayr.

Hi there, partner, Ian replied in his customary Texan drawl.

Is there a problem? Something I can help you with? The Arab spoke in English now.

Thanks for stopping. I’m in a bit of a jam. Ian pointed at the flat tire.

From Bareetania? asked the stranger.

No, we’re from Texas.

Aha…Amreekah. You’re welcome in my country. How can I help?

I have a spare but no jack. Could I borrow your jack? asked Ian.

Well, of course. The man bowed a little to indicate his compliance.

Ian was impressed with this Arab gentleman. He had heard of their generosity and gentle behavior toward strangers, but this was the first time he had come face-to-face with an example. This could be a wonderful introduction of the Arab people to Liz, Ian thought, and said abruptly, I’m forgetting my manners. Please let me introduce you to my wife. I’m afraid my son is asleep.

The Arab followed Ian to his car.

This is my wife Liz, and Liz, this is…I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask your name.

I know, he said. Ignoring Ian’s question, he extended his right hand to Liz with a welcoming smile. As he shook Liz’s hand, he slipped his left hand into a pocket in his robe and drew out a handgun.

A lone Myna bird, sitting under a nearby bush, stared blankly.

* * *

It was Sunday morning, the 16th of September, 2001, and the international airport in Prague was sparsely populated. The effect of the terrorism act on September 11th was evident in declining tourist travel worldwide, and Europe proved to be no exception. A few people sat in the arrival lounge, presumably waiting to receive their families and friends. A flight from Pakistan had landed fifteen minutes ago.

In a small café in the corner of the airport, only two of the ten tables were occupied. Sipping coffee at one table was an Iraqi intelligence officer who was officially in the country as a secretary to the commercial attaché at the Iraqi embassy. He wore a blue suit with a white cotton shirt, open at the collar. With the toe of his right shoe he tapped a rhythm on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to mask his nervousness and excitement. He pretended to read the newspaper he held in his left hand, but every now and then he casually glanced at the arrival gate. Occasionally he watched the couple at the only other occupied table and wondered if they could be part of some international intelligence agency too. He told himself that the couple could not be spies; they were too old—in their late seventies. He focused his gaze on his newspaper.

Soon, he promised himself, he would be a part of an important project, one he had been working toward for such a long time. He wouldn’t have much longer to wait.   

A few minutes later Suleiman Bayounis strode through the arrival gate. He was the younger brother of Mohsin Bayounis, who had put Al Qaeda on the world map after collapsing the World Trade Center towers. He didn’t pause to take in his surroundings, but went straight to the café and ordered a coffee and an almond croissant. Clad in tight blue jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket, carrying a small backpack looped over his left shoulder, he easily fit the image of the typical tourist who so often came to Prague to enjoy its architecture, beer, and jazz clubs. He ignored the Iraqi agent, whom he’d met on several previous occasions, simply picked up his coffee and croissant and strolled over to a table only three feet from where the Iraqi was sitting. He sat with his back toward the Iraqi and slowly sipped his coffee.

After a moment he whispered, I’ve only a few minutes. We must make this quick. He had spoken calmly and in a resolute tone that emanated both confidence and arrogance. Has your government agreed to work with us?

Permission has been granted by His Excellency himself, answered the Iraqi, eyes still on his newspaper. Your scientists will be provided complete facilities to carry on with their work. What’s the status of the uranium? When do you expect to receive it?

Don’t talk about it here, Bayounis said, glancing at the couple chatting at the other table. All you need to know is that we’re on schedule. He paused to again sip his coffee. Just make sure that the delivery system is ready. We’ll start moving our scientists to Iraq immediately. The Sheikh wants to ensure complete success. He’s personally in charge of this program and will dictate when and how it moves. Is that okay with your government?

It’s fine with us. But your scientists will have to work under our supervision. We won’t simply hand over our facilities to you, said the Iraqi firmly as he turned to the next page of his newspaper. He knew that his government had their own agenda for the nuclear program and they must remain in charge. Iraq was committed to a long-term nuclear program that would one day enable them to emerge as the controlling power in the Middle East. There would be no further failures like the ones they’d suffered in the past in Iran and Kuwait.

That’s okay with us. We’ll be in touch. Suleiman gulped down his coffee, rose, and walked toward the elevators to the departure lounge. Iraqi smiled as he folded up his newspaper for he felt that he had successfully convinced Suleiman to now proceed to Italy to meet the Al Qaeda cell there. Iraqi intelligence had ongoing surveillance on Suleiman and was aware of his movements. 

The older couple didn’t pay much attention to the two people sitting and talking. They had probably seen many odd tourists before. That was a part of the charm of this place, and why so many tourists were attracted to Prague every year.

The Iraqi intelligence officer remained in his seat for another five minutes, drinking his coffee and occasionally glancing around. He then stood up, looked casually around the arrival lounge, and strolled out of the building.

Neither of them realized that the Prague security police were watching them and had recorded their meeting on hidden surveillance cameras. Now security removed the tape from the machine, wrapped it, and boxed it in a special container to be sent to the CIA. Time was running out. The lives of tens of thousands of innocent Americans were in the hands of the Prague secret service police and the CIA.

One

Dr. Matthew H. Slater, a behavioral analysis specialist with the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, took another sip of his coffee and casually scanned the lecture hall. It had started to fill up with young and eager faces. Matt was on a road tour to promote his new book, Mind-set Killers, and today he was scheduled to give a talk to the University of Iowa Injury Prevention Center.

The Bureau had always supported Matt in his endeavors to write crime-fighter books and present them to universities around the nation. His tours promoted the Bureau and the exposure assisted in their annual recruitment drive at the various universities. Matt enjoyed writing the books because it allowed him to work alone, his favorite way of working.

The Twin Towers tragedy was barely a week old, so Matt was surprised when his supervisor, Andrew Hunt, Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, allowed him a week off for the book tour. He thought the FBI must be planning an aggressive recruitment drive in the near future, otherwise there was no plausible reason why he would be allowed a week away from the office. The events of September 11th had created more work than the current staff at the Bureau could handle.

The terrorists had struck a serious blow to the security of the nation and Congress was blaming both the FBI and the CIA for their ineffectiveness. The Trade Towers tragedy made it glaringly obvious to the President’s office that there were communication gaps between the CIA and the FBI. The hijackers of the commercial planes had slipped through these gaps and carried out one of the worst terrorist attacks in history in the heart of New York. The President had demanded immediate action to ensure seamless communication between the FBI and the CIA and structural reform through organizational re-engineering, all in an effort to better protect the nation and its citizens from any future attacks.

The director of the Bureau wasted no time in permanently doubling the number of agents assigned to counterterrorism. There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that counterterrorism would be the FBI’s top priority for a long time to come, but to Matt, it wasn’t enough; he had seen such apparent changes in the past, and they were usually designed to satisfy politicians. After a while everyone forgot why priorities were reassigned and organizational changes were made and the whole system gravitated back to its customary bureaucratic practices, riddled with internal politics and bickering. Matt was sick of it.

But soon it wouldn’t matter. Matt allowed himself a faint smile. This time he knew exactly what he had to do to break away from the stifling environment of his office.

Right now, though, he had to concentrate on the promotion of his book. Ever since his successful first book, Mind Reader, had earned a place on the New York Times bestseller list, his agent had been pressuring him to come up with a second book. As in his first book, most of the material for this second one came from interviews he’d conducted with hardcore murderers serving time behind bars. Most of them were serving life sentences and some even multiple life sentences.

Almost three hundred students filled the auditorium now, along with a few journalists and two professors. Matt’s agent was present with several autographed copies of Mind-set Killers. After about half an hour of coffee and cookies, the crowd was gradually settling down in their seats. Matt approached the podium, took a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket, and began his lecture.

He held up the paper. This is a letter addressed to me. It’s a from a crime organization—I’m on their death list, and soon, they say, I will be eliminated. As a psychologist, such a letter would frighten me. But as a crime solver, I am flattered that this group considers me a threat. I must be getting better.

Laughter rippled through the auditorium.

"We are entering a new era of crime that has motivational factors we know very little about. In the West we can deal with conventional criminals no matter how clever they think they are, because we can analyze the clues and facts as they emerge through criminal investigations. We’ve an effective intelligence system that is centralized and coordinated through