Betrayal in the Casbah Read online

  “Mitch, you’re hurt!” she cried.

  He was stunned by her response—not only had she spoken English, but she’d done so in a perfect American accent.

  “What . . . what was that, Abella?” he whispered, each word emerging painfully through clenched teeth.

  She ignored his question and pulled him nearer. His head pressed against her breasts. He heard the rhythmic drumbeat of her heart increasing as she tried to lift him.

  Abella had a strong, athletic build despite her medium height. Still, lifting Mitch’s full weight was a challenge for her. She steadied herself, then pulled and dragged him to the bed. He reached up and grabbed the bed’s side rail as Abella struggled to lift him to his feet. Once on the edge of the mattress, he rolled onto his back, welcoming the soft support of the bed.

  “Abella, you speak American!” he said, trying to catch his breath.

  She ran from the room without responding. Reaching down, he gathered a fistful of bedsheet and pushed it against the wound to stem the bleeding. He stared at the blank ceiling as questions overwhelmed his mind. How was she able to speak American so freely? What is she hiding from me? Who is Abella, and is that her real name? He had only known Abella to speak French, though he assumed she was also fluent in Arabic as all Algerians seemed to be.

  His thoughts were soon interrupted by her angry voice just outside his room. Abella reentered as quickly as she’d left, pulling a doctor by the sleeve. There was intensity in her voice as she pointed to the bloody sheet, commanding the doctor in Arabic to examine Mitch. It was an unusual sight in an Islamic country. In this culture, demanding and directing a man of authority as a woman could be very dangerous.

  “I’m sorry, Mitch, but now is not the time or place for me to answer your questions,” Abella blurted out. “This asinine doctor refuses to help you because he says, ‘I do not assist infidels!’ But I’ll see that he helps you. I will remind him that my girlfriend and I saw him groping a nurse last week, and I know his wife very well!”

  Turning back to the doctor, she spoke to him again in Arabic. She kept her voice quiet this time but maintained her authoritative tone. Abella again pointed to the saturated sheet Mitch was clutching. It was no longer able to absorb his blood. She pushed the doctor toward him.

  “Abella,” Mitch whispered, “you’ll put yourself in danger, speaking to him this way.”

  “I cannot be diplomatic at the moment, Mitch, so please shut up, and let me take care of you!”

  Her forceful attitude was stunning. As she looked at him from time to time while prepping his wound to be re-stitched, she felt a new closeness between them.

  “The doctor seems to have had a change of heart.”

  “His wife is a strong woman and quite influential in our government,” Abella said. “She is the vice president of the Council of the Nation. She also happens to be the cousin of President Bouteflika. If I told her what I had witnessed, and it was confirmed, the doctor would disappear from this earth.”

  Mitch was shocked. Abella might be someone much more significant than just an attractive nurse he’d grown fond of. Obviously she was a skilled nurse, but her language skills, connections to the highest governmental officials, and her swagger astounded him.

  She noticed that he was staring at her. Abella glanced at the doctor. He had turned away to wash his hands before re-stitching the American’s wound. She seemed worried. Mitch wondered if she had slipped and revealed more about herself than intended.

  Keeping her eye on the doctor as he washed his hands, Abella leaned close to Mitch. He felt her lips against his cheek as she grasped his hand and whispered, “All of this will become clearer to you, but you must trust me.”

  -•-•

  Mitch had mixed feelings the day he finally was allowed to leave the hospital. He hadn’t slept well the night before and was up early, knowing that the shower would be quite a challenge with all the bandages on his abdomen. But he successfully completed that task and then moved on to the chore of stuffing his torn and bloodstained uniform into the small hospital travel bag.

  That damn hospital gown had opened up and revealed his ass to strangers for the last time. The casual civilian clothes he wore now had been delivered from his embassy residence. They felt clean and refreshing. He wanted out of this surgically sterilized prison, but he didn’t want to say goodbye to Abella.

  The US ambassador had notified Mitch that he was sending his chauffeur and a US State Department special agent to pick the colonel up at noon. The ambassador also mentioned that he wanted Mitch to attend an important meeting at 3 p.m. in the bubble.

  Mitch was fascinated by the embassy’s bubble. An acoustic conference room, the bubble resembled a huge, transparent, walk-in egg and was equipped with many layers of anti-bugging technology. He always enjoyed meetings there, primarily because it meant that the subject was of a very sensitive, classified nature. Plus, the bubble provided the best air-conditioning one could find in the embassy compound. That meant escaping the stiflingly humid Mediterranean weather for at least an hour.

  At exactly 12 p.m., Mitch received a phone call from the hospital operator informing him that he had visitors waiting in the lobby. Abella insisted that she push his wheelchair to the corridor where the two embassy men were waiting.

  “Abella, you know I’m perfectly able to walk to the lobby,” Mitch said as she gestured to the wheelchair. “I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”

  “Policy dictates that you must be in a wheelchair when being discharged from the hospital, Colonel,” Abella responded authoritatively. She laughed and softly touched his cheek with her hand.

  “Can I be perfectly honest with you, Abella? I hate the thought of not seeing you. Perhaps it sounds childish, but it’s like that old song says.” He cleared his throat. “‘I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely, I could always be that way again, and yet, I’ve grown accustomed to your look. Accustomed to your voice. Accustomed to your face.’”

  Abella gazed at him and her cheeks flushed. “You flatter me and say things that I have never heard from a man,” she said. After a pause she insisted, “We must go before your embassy visitors become angry.”

  He settled into the wheelchair and let Abella push. Reflecting on what he had just said to her, he didn’t regret it.

  His thoughts turned to the traffic accident that had taken his wife. It seemed a lifetime ago, though in reality only six years had passed. It always troubled Mitch that they had argued that morning. Because of his stubbornness, he didn’t tell her that he loved her before they parted ways. He had vowed that if ever he felt close to another woman, he would tell her daily, in many different ways, exactly how his heart felt for her.

  As they approached the lobby, he wanted to share one last word with Abella before anyone noticed them. Before he could, the wheelchair lurched to the right. Abella abruptly pushed the chair toward the wall, and Mitch had to yank back his foot as they slammed toward a swinging door and into a linen closet. The door closed with barely enough room for the two of them.

  Although there was no light in the small room, the light seeping around the doorframe revealed the outline of Abella’s body. Her hands softly cradled his face, and her warm, moist lips passionately pressed against his. Instinctively their lips parted and tongues intertwined. Mitch had dreamed of this but thought it would

  never happen.

  He wrapped his arms around her and slowly rose from the wheelchair, pulling her closer as their tongues continued their dance. She pushed her body against his, and what started as a flame became a raging fire. His hand slid down to her buttocks, gently squeezing and massaging. He wished she were no longer clothed. Abella let out a soft moan. This tiny closet had become a paradise, and any inhibitions they’d brought into it melted away.

  An abrupt pounding on the closet door snapped them out of their euphoria. He
sat quickly in the wheelchair, and Abella adjusted her dress. She slowly opened the door, both anticipating an embarrassing situation. Then Abella began to laugh. He peered out and followed her gaze to an elderly cleaning lady walking along the corridor, pushing a broom and hitting every wall and door as she swept.

  “Thank God,” Abella whispered, exhaling loudly.

  He breathed deeply, feeling the same wave of relief. Then, looking down the hallway again, he noticed the US special agent talking to hospital security.

  “Abella,” he hissed, “we have to get to the lobby ASAP. I’m sure security knew when we left my room.”

  “Okay, Mitch, but when we are together again, I need to refresh my American-language skills because I’m not sure what ASAP means?”

  “You bet. Would there be an opportunity to perhaps continue our linen-closet research?”

  Abella rapidly pushed him toward the lobby. “Absolutely,” she replied, “but let’s find a bigger closet!”

  The chauffeur and special agent turned as they entered the lobby and Mitch stood from the wheelchair.

  “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle,” he said, giving Abella a clandestine wink.

  “Faire attention, Colonel,” Abella cautioned. Then, with a smile, they parted.

  3

  Mitch felt empty as the embassy vehicle departed the hospital. The special agent attempted some small talk, but the colonel was not really paying attention.

  “Colonel Ross, I bet you’re ecstatic to get out of that damn germ-infested hospital,” the agent said. “It’s been, what, a little over a month? Must’ve been boring as hell. Just sitting in that shithole room without American TV channels, eating that Algerian crap food. Christ—goat, couscous, and dates? Give me a burger and fries anytime over that shit.”

  Mitch tried to ignore him, but the cultural insults were too much.

  “You know, your opinion is like an asshole—everyone has one, but some smell worse than others,” Mitch replied, trying to stay calm.

  The agent said nothing to him for the rest of the trip to the embassy. The colonel was glad he didn’t have to think about anything other than Abella. As the chauffer radioed in their position and they rounded the last turn, the twelve-foot steel embassy gates slowly opened, and they drove into the compound.

  Mitch had become complacent about the routine of entering the compound, having experienced it hundreds of times. But for someone new, it would be rather frightening. As their vehicle came to a rapid stop, security guards pointed machine guns and sawed-off shotguns at their car. The guards were partially hidden in their firing positions along the wall, behind a couple of palm trees, and inside a small guard shack.

  Checking his watch, Mitch saw he had approximately two hours before the meeting in the bubble. He opened his door and waved to the guards. Jake Davis, chief of security, lowered his shotgun and approached. He gave Mitch a big smile and a bigger handshake that rattled the fillings in the colonel’s teeth.

  “It’s damned good to see you again, Colonel,” he said. “We were afraid you were going to be medevac’d out of country and permanently sent back to the States.”

  Jake was a good old boy from Kentucky who had spent his entire career as a special agent for the US State Department after graduating from the University of Louisville. Most people took note of his size first. He could have played tackle for the Chicago Bears. But Jake was a unique man and always up for a challenge. Mitch had been told that he was the first African American to enter the State Department as a special agent. He had a great sense of humor and frequently provided a welcome comic relief in this environment of long hours and extreme political stress. Mitch liked him a lot.

  “Jake, it feels like I’ve been away for ages,” Mitch replied with a smile and a pat on his back. “But I’m almost one hundred percent. I figure I’m just about ready to kick your butt in a game of darts for a round of beers.”

  “You’re on, Colonel! Just name the time and the place,” Jake replied, pulling a well-chewed cigar from his mouth.

  As Mitch grabbed his bag from the trunk of the car, a wave of fatigue hit. He thought about coffee from the cafeteria but dismissed that thought; he felt filthy. He headed for his embassy residence and a well-deserved shower.

  The Algerian gardener seemed ecstatic to see him when Mitch made his way through the embassy gardens. An elderly man who grew roses as passionately as Baskin and Robbins created ice cream, his roses were of all different colors, each one with a dynamic fragrance.

  Out of appreciation for his skills, Mitch had given him a special gift—his cherished LA Dodgers ball cap. Mitch loved that cap, but when he wore it the gardener always commented on how wonderful it was. Since giving it to him, Mitch had never seen the man without it covering his balding head. Still, Mitch was surprised when the man rushed over and hugged him.

  “Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour, mon colonel,” he exclaimed joyfully.

  “Bonjour, mon ami, ça va?” the colonel replied, asking about his health.

  “Oui, je vais bien, mon colonel,” he replied.

  As Mitch escaped his grip, an embassy staff member approached. “Colonel, welcome back,” the staffer said. “I’m sorry to inform you that the ambassador has pushed up the meeting on his calendar. He wants to see you in the bubble now.”

  “Damn, I wanted to shower!” he groaned. “Okay, tell the boss I’m on my way.”

  He picked up his bag from where it had dropped when the gardener pulled him into a bear hug. Gazing over the beautiful roses one more time, Mitch took a deep breath and proceeded to the chancery building and the bubble.

  Five minutes later, he reached the chancery. This large, white, ornate building looked more like a fortress than a diplomat’s working residence. Inside, Mitch showed an identification card to the US Marine on duty. The Marine looked beyond the card and immediately stepped out from behind the secure entry. Mitch marveled at how Marines always resembled a photograph from a recruiting poster. Every aspect of their appearance, from uniforms to haircuts, was perfect.

  The Marine’s boot heels thudded together, and he stood ramrod straight with a perfect salute.

  “Sir, it’s an outstanding day today because you have returned to the embassy compound!” he rattled off with flawless precision.

  Although Mitch was not in uniform, he dropped his bag, stood straight, and returned his salute. “I’m very happy to be back, Gunny, and it’s good to see you again.” He dropped his salute and the Marine lowered his.

  In his time at the embassy, Mitch had learned that US Marines showed the utmost respect to officers. They waited for the officer to take the lead on all actions, to include shaking hands. So Mitch stuck out his hand, and the gunny sergeant grabbed it with gusto and a big smile.

  “Sir, there was talk here at the embassy that you might not survive that stabbing. Our Marine detachment went into a morale tailspin when we heard that. It’s just been in the past week that we finally got the good news. We all made a special toast in your honor at the Marine bar!”

  “Well, thanks, Gunny, and please pass on my heartfelt appreciation to the rest of the Marines in the detachment. But to be honest with you, if I don’t get my butt to the bubble ASAP, the ambassador might finish what that terrorist tried to do.” Mitch grabbed his bag and ran into the chancery.

  As he approached the bubble, a US special agent standing at the entry motioned for him to hurry. Inside the see-through structure, he saw the ambassador sitting at a table with the chief of station.

  Ah, shit, Mitch thought at seeing those two government heavyweights. This was not going to be a routine meeting. Damn it! I can handle the ambassador, but compounding it with the top CIA official at the embassy is not going to be a cakewalk. He swallowed hard just before entering, stomach acid rising into his throat.

  “Sorry, Mr. Ambassador,” he said once inside. “I was detained upon my arriva
l to the embassy.”

  “Mitch, it’s not your fault. I’m the one that changed the meeting schedule. Besides, the last time we were together, you were lying on the beach, struggling to stay alive. Thank God you’re here. Sit down, please.”

  Pulling up a chair, Mitch nodded at the chief of station. He felt a slight pain from his wound and a burning in his throat.

  “You know Greg Cain, don’t you, Mitch?” the ambassador asked.

  “Yes sir, we usually grab a coffee at the cafeteria in the morning and compare notes,” Mitch responded.

  “Great. Greg, why don’t you take the meeting and explain the details.” The ambassador leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table.

  “Damn good to see you, Mitch. Glad everything seems to have turned out okay,” Greg said, bending over the table to shake his hand.

  Having gotten the formalities out of the way, Greg got down to business.

  “Mitch, I understand from researching your background that you flew combat missions in Desert Storm. On January 20, 1991, during one of those missions, you came very close to getting shot down over Baghdad. You were hit by antiaircraft artillery, the left engine exploded, the jet was on fire, and your back-seater, Bags, was wounded. I also discovered that you were awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for heroism by the vice president of the United States for your actions during that mission.”

  Greg stared at Mitch without expression. Although everything he’d said was completely true, Mitch felt the warmth of embarrassment rise on his face.

  Greg continued, “Your task was to suppress enemy air defenses and protect Air Force and Navy bombers and strikers going to downtown Baghdad. Their mission was to take out communication systems and command-and-control centers. You carried four high-speed anti-radiation missiles, commonly known as HARMs. You used them quite effectively that day, taking out an SA-2, SA-6, and a radar-guided 57 mm antiaircraft artillery, otherwise known as AAA. From your post-mission debrief to intel, you stated that during your final attack, your last HARM went ballistic. That seemed rather unfortunate for you, because the SAM site that you were attempting to kill launched a missile that exploded near your jet. As you stated during your debrief, it drove you down to a vulnerable altitude, resulting in your aircraft being hit by 23 mm AAA and subsequently catching fire.”