CROSSFIRE: Ex-CIA JON BRADLEY Thriller Series (TERROR BLOODLINE Book 1) (6 page)

2003

Wādī l-Biqā‘, Beirut in Lebanon

    There was a strong ringing in both his ears.  The faint sound of a voice with a foreign accent… increasing and decreasing in pitch… the words sounding distant and making no sense.

    He tried to open his eyes, but just couldn’t… he tried harder… harder… but they simply wouldn’t come unstuck.

    His head kept pounding, his whole body ached, his chest felt constricted and his lungs hurt with every small breath he managed to take.

    Someone was trying to move him, and coaxing him at the same time. He felt hands around his mid-trunk, and his reflexes prompted him to get to his feet.

    But the muscles in his legs from the waist down trembled with the knees failing to respond.   

    His strenuous effort to stand roughened his senses and he could feel the acute throbbing in his right shoulder and stinging pain on the right side of his neck.

    For the first time since regaining half-consciousness, he could actually feel body- contact with another person, who was still continuing to coax him….

    After a while, the voice sounded familiar, becoming somewhat clearer. 

“… Mr. Peter… Mr. Peter… can you hear me?” It kept going on and on, until the voice registered in Bradley’s mind. 

    He had shut his eyes tight with the effort to remember.  Now he opened them and his blurred vision slowly returned to near-normal, when he saw and recognized who was standing above him.  

    “Ja….meel?” his voice sounded choked with the hoarseness.

    “
Al-Hamdulillāh.
Thanks are to God.”

    There was a sign of pure relief on Jameel’s face. “Are you feeling better… can you try to walk a little distance from here…?”

    “I’ll… try… Where’re we…? What time is it…?”

    “Don’t talk.  Save your strength.  I will help you, Mr. Peter.”

     When his vision improved, Jonathan found himself sitting half-propped against the wreckage of a towering truck.  He smelt the acrid odor of a burning car, his senses jolting his memory back to what had happened a while ago.

     Bradley clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tightly again. Then taking a deep breath, he made as strenuous an effort he could muster to slowly come to his feet, half-leaning for support on the truck’s body and helped by Jameel.  

    He ignored the agony of pain shooting through his body, but his legs withstood his weight after a brief wobble. 

    Jameel held him remain steady for a few moments, before he could test himself, leaning against Jameel, to take a small step and then two.  Resting and feeling the blood circulate in his limbs.  After a while, he felt weak, but knew that he could manage to walk some distance.

   “Good… you are doing fine. You are getting stronger, Mr. Peter,” Jameel was cheerful whilst encouraging him.

   There were a whole lot of questions Jonathan wanted to ask Jameel.

    Jameel more or less sensed what the
Ameriki
sought to know.  “I will explain later what happened.  First, we must leave this place.  It is dark and is possible to go without being seen.  But let’s hope we don’t across path with any of the militants because that will mean trouble for you and for me also.”

    Bradley brought up his left hand.  His reflexes responded normally though a bit sluggishly, but not cramped. The watch on

his wrist was still working and its hands showed 10 minutes past 10.00 PM.  He had lost all sense of time for over an hour.

    Moreover, he had lost his cellphone.   That did not worry him. Actually, his mobile unit would have automatically locked and self-destructed itself if not timely reset. 

    However, the cell’s GPS would have alerted his Control about his last position. 

    More than three hours had passed since his last contact with him.   This was enough time for his Control to have activated whatever the support system in place through the CIA’s local intelligence sources.
That is, if the intentions were in the right place,
he thought as his previous suspicions returned.

        “Jameel, do you have your cellphone intact? I seem to have lost mine?” 

    “Sorry, Mr. Peter…” 

    “Jameel, you can call me Peter, for God’s sake…”

    “OK. I like that name
Boutros
better
, in Lebanese.
I thought my cellphone would be safer inside the car’s glove compartment.  Now I’m without my phone and the guns as well,” Jameel said dejectedly. “Pray that we don’t have a situation where we cannot defend ourselves.”

   
Meantime, Bradley was shifting his weight from one leg to another, keeping the circulation going and maintaining his equilibrium.

     While doing so, he looked down at himself. His half-sleeve blue shirt was blood-stained and dirty, and his dark blue trousers were torn in a few places.

   Then, for the first time, he realized Jameel was in his undershirt, and that he wore the
Keffiyeh
wrapped across his forehead. It was wet and blood-stained; some of the blood had flowed down and dried on his face.  His black jeans were soiled and spotted with burn holes.

   He remembered pulling Jameel away from inside the car after Jameel was hit and they abandoned the vehicle.

    The Lebanese man, apparently lucky, must have suffered some temporary concussion at least, when the slug nicked across his right brow.

    Yet he tried to appear cheerful and act normal.  Jonathan Bradley would salute this man for his courage.

    “
Boutros,
now listen.  We are presently in the
Wadi Neita
village of the Kasarnaba town in the Beqa’a valley.

     “We’ll walk down this place to the next village and stop at the first small house we come to.  Let’s only hope the residents aren’t militants themselves or their sympathizers.  The people here are generally simple farmers.  I will go and ask for some help, or at least to use a phone to make a call to your people.” Jameel paused to look over Bradley. 

    He then stepped aside to check to on the make-do cloth bandage tied across Bradley’s chest and right shoulder and another one around his neck.

   “You have taken a slug into your right shoulder and shrapnel into the left side of your neck. I have used the cloth from my shirt to temporarily stop the bleeding, but you will need a doctor soon.”

    Jon was mentally surmising the extent of his injuries. 

    He knew from his knowledge and experience in working with and training informants in the use of the Dragunov sniper rifle, its effective range was 600-800 meters.  The distance from where the sniper appeared to have fired at them was beyond that range.

    However, he would know later if it was truly a Dragunov rifle that the sniper had been using, only after the slug was retrieved from his shoulder.

     Despite being hit by the high velocity sniper’s bullet, it was probably a ricocheting slug, its force already spent before lodging itself into his right shoulder. 

    It was not a deep penetration. Otherwise, his injuries would have been of life-threatening nature such as severe internal damage including broken bones and tissues, collapsed lungs and severed arteries.

    For now he felt that the bullet had caused no excessive structural or vascular damage.  He was still able to move his right arm which meant that the brachial artery in the arm was not perforated.

    Similarly, the metal fragment lodged into the left side of the neck though bloody and painful had caused no damage to the deeper neck structures.

    Both his injuries though not immediately life-threatening were serious nonetheless.  There had been a significant loss of blood and the wounds had to be medically treated sooner than later because of high contamination from the slug and fragment further infecting the wounds.  Only then, he would ever know the real extent of his injuries. 

    Already, Bradley was feeling feverish and normally incapacitated.

    “I understand that, Jameel. I can feel the hurt… but don’t worry, I shall manage.  By the way, I owe you one, Jameel.”      

    “No problem,
Boutros,
you are a valuable guest of my country, and as hosts, we take great care of our guests, you know that? “ Jameel smiled mischievously.

    There was enough natural light to find their way down the incline of the wreckage site, where they had sought refuge.    

    They took the dirt tract, which led them to the street below. Jameel was walking a little ahead of Jon, making sure that the road was clear before continuing along the shadows.      

    They soon arrived at the unpaved rural road and could see the lights showing from a few of the scattered houses.          

    Bradley occasionally rested and took support from Jameel to steady himself from falling.  His shoulder and neck wounds were beginning to bleed.  He felt the wetness when he touched them.

     They had been walking along the village road for about twenty minutes.  Jon saw Jameel motion him to stop.   

    Then, Jameel retreated towards Jonathan to whisper, “You stay in the shadows of the trees.  There’s an intersection ahead, where the road divides into the left and right going towards the bigger farms and vineyards.    Someone could be coming down this intersection.  We are not going in that direction, but need to watch out.”

    Then pointing to a place in the opposite direction, “There is a single house there, quiet apart from the others.  That would be more like our place to seek help.”

      “Give me a few moments, Jameel, to catch up with my strength.  You can proceed and I will follow you a short distance behind.  This way if trouble comes our way, we won’t both be taken by surprise.”

     Jameel had just disappeared from view, when Jonathan heard the sound of a car engine, and turned to look towards the intersection.  He quickly moved deeper into the shadows.   

    Minutes later, the vehicle drove past the place he was standing hidden, brightening the road up ahead. Its powerful headlamps caught a faltering figure in its wide-radius beam. 

    For a moment, Bradley’s heart skipped a beat. 

2003

Wadi Neita in
Kasarnaba
,

Beqa’a Valley

    But the driver did not slow down or stop the Jeep
Wrangler
.  He merely kept on driving straight up the rural road, leaving a dusty trail behind him. 

    The shadowy figure of Jameel turned in his direction, and beckoned him, calling out in Arabic, “
Boutros, ta’al hini.
Come this way, Peter.”

    After glancing towards left and right, Jon struggled to cross the road to the other side where Jameel waited for him. 

    From the rural road, a narrow grass pathway led to the farm house surrounded by a natural fence made of shrubs and flower plants.  The wooden gate to it was open, and the outside area was lit by a small electric bulb.

    Jameel would have to wake up the residents since the farmers went to bed early to rise up at dawn.

    They walked up to the front door verandah. Bradley stepped aside to lean by the side of the door, while Jameel started knocking, first lightly and then a bit harder. 

    Somewhere inside a light came on, and they heard the sound of bare-feet approaching the door from inside and a half-asleep grumpy, guttural voice demanding,
“Minoo…?
Who is it?”

    "As-salaam aleykum.
Peace be with

you. “

    “
Wa-aleykum as-salaam
. 
Shoo ‘areed?
What do you want?”

    “Ana Jameel Khalaf….’
and he went on speaking fast in Lebanese Arabic, Jonathan trying to catch up with him.

    Jameel was telling the man that he and a friend of his were hurt and needed help badly. 

    The man was being cautious.  He told Jameel that they should go to the hospital. 

    Jameel replied that they did not have a car.  The villager did not answer for a few moments.

    Jameel then, offered to pay the man… in dollars, he emphasized, glancing towards Jon for confirmation. The latter nodded.

    There was a momentary silence from inside and then they heard the bolts open and the short, sturdy figure of an elderly man with a weathered face, dressed in loose-fitting night clothes, emerge cautiousl
y 
ontoth
e
verandah.

    He first looked up at Jameel then shifted his gaze on Jonathan, at once wincing on noticing his disheveled state.

    “Minoo hada?
Who’s he?” the farmer turned alert.  “
Min wayn huwa?
Where is he from?”

    “Awwal min-el ʿajamiyah.
Originally from Spain,“ Jameel misinformed him, knowing that Spain enjoyed a cultural relationship with the Islamic middle-east regions.

    Jameel went on to tell him that Bradley was a friend of his now visiting him and his family in Lebanon.  They had come sight-seeing to the Kasarnaba town
wadis
famous for their vineyards, fruits and gardens, when they were caught in a sectarian firefight.

    The other members of the house had not awakened yet.  The man appeared to be convinced, but remarked that he did not want any trouble from the militia or the Hezbollah extremists.

    He took them inside along a corridor of closed rooms on both sides until they came to a rest-area equipped with washbasins and chairs, opening into the backyard of the farm house.

    The farmer introduced himself as Hisham and insisted that they clean up first and then make their phone calls.

    Hisham helped Jameel to clean Bradley’s wounds, treating them with the first-aid kit and bandaging them properly, but not before first making Jonathan drink over a large dose of the local fiery brandy, and later giving him a clean shirt to put on.     

    By then, Bradley was feeling better, but weakened and battling not to lose consciousness.

    Next, they attended to Jameel’s head wound.  There was an old gardening jacket lying on a chair, which the old man insisted Jameel wear.

    “Fiyyé esta’mel telefoonak?
Can I now use your telephone?” Jameel requested the farmer.

    Very
o
ften the landlines were malfunctioning or the public phone wires were cut off during the sectarian conflicts.

     Luckily, the farmer managed to get the ringtone and handed it over to Jameel, leaving the room saying he’d prepare some
“qahwa”
– Arabic coffee.

     Jameel extended the phone to Bradley, the latter took it and dialed his Control, but it was switched off. Then, he dialed the personal number of the Station Chief. It was picked up on the sixth ring.

    “It’s me here, Sir…”

    “Jonathan, are you alright…?” the station chief sounded very anxious. “Our people are on the standby… they are in the valley, have scouted your last position. Can you give tell me your present location.  Is it safe there…?”

   “So far OK Sir.  We are inside a farm house in the neighborhood of the
Wadi Neita
village of the Kasarnaba town in the Beqa’a valley.  The farm owner has been cooperative…,”   Jonathan faltered for short of breath.

    “Bradley, are you alright?”

    “I have taken a bullet in my shoulder and shrapnel in the neck.  Jameel… he too is hurt… I can’t seem to concentrate for long…”

    “Alright, Jonathan.  Try to hold on.  We will get you out of there quickly.  Give the phone to the local contact. Jameel, is he?”

    “Right, Sir.”  He extended the phone to Jameel.  “Speak to the Station Chief.”

    “Jameel here, Sir.”

    “Are you hurt badly?”

    “No, Sir.  Just a nick across my forehead.”

    “Well then, listen, Jameel.  Do you know where exactly this farm house is located?”

    “The farmer tells me it i
s
Wadi Ain el Louis,
a little down the rural road to the central Beqa’a valley.”   

    The station chief was nearly stunned.  That place was the haven of the Hezbollah

extremists.  Jonathan Bradley was amidst the hornets’ nest. Alone and without local help, he was a candidate for kidnapping and certain torture and murder by the fringe Islamic elements.

    “OK.  Our people will know where that is.  Jameel, think carefully and reply.  Do you think that farmer can be trusted?”

    “I think so…,” Jameel hesitated, “but I can’t be certain.  We proposed to pay him in dollars too, and he appeared to like that idea. He has been helpful so far.”

    “OK. Pay him well. What about the other members of his family?” 

      “Only the farmer is with us.

I do not know how many others are present in this house…”

    “Jameel, here’s what you could do.  I assume both of you have lost your cellphones.  Try to get the farmer sell or lend you his phone.  He will have a vehicle… everyone in Lebanon has one type or another.

    “Next ask him to drive you two to the nearest clinic or hospital, preferably the
Beqa’a Hospital,
while it’s still dark.  There will not be many people around, but you don’t need to go inside for treatment.  By then, our men will have arrived and you two will be taken care of.”

    “Will do, Sir.”

    “Ask… umm… Peter to call me after you have made the deal with the farmer.  Take care, both of you.”

    The farm owner had returned with a tray of three cups of steaming black coffee. 

    Almost an hour had gone by since they arrived at the farm house.  Jonathan’s watch showed close to 12.00 AM.

    Jameel had related to him what the station chief had proposed.

    While at ease and drinking the coffee, Jameel brought up the issue of the cellphone and their request for their drop to the hospital.

    “Ma ‘andi mobaile.
I don’t have a cellphone.”

    He added that he did not like cellphones because he kept on misplacing or losing them. His two sons used them all the time.

     Jameel glanced at Jonathan, knowing that he was listening and keeping up with the colloquial Arabic, the farmer was speaking.

    “Andekum al-sayaara?
Have you a car?”

    “Na’am. Yes. “ ‘
Andi el-Mercedes, sayyaara fatiiga
. I have an old Mercedes.”

    “Tayyeb. 
Fine.”

    Jameel turned to Jonathan. “Check your wallet and see how many US dollars you have.” 

    Jonathan was trying to access his wallet

in his trousers pocket when he felt the slight tremors in his fingers and the whole of the right hand.  He instantly feared the worse, realizing that his shoulder wound was beginning to react. He would need proper medical attention soon.

    He, however,  got his wallet out and was counting, “I have mostly
lira,
the Lebanese pound. And, ah yes… about $700 dollars. ”

     “Give me the $700 and I will add a few hundred
liras
which I have on me.”

     Bradley passed on the money and Jameel added his portion and handed it over to the old farmer.  He took it hesitatingly, looking somewhat embarrassed as he uttered his thanks,
“Shookran”

    “Tekram. You’re welcome,” ans
wered Jameel. 

    “
Haza Yakoon.
Hope I helped.”

   “Jazīlan. Alhamdulillah.
Very much.
Allah
be praised.”

    Jameel waved at Bradley, who sat quietly, trying to follow their conversation.

    The Lebanese informant was requesting the old farmer to do them a last favor by driving them to the nearest
el-mustashfaa Beqa’a
. 

    Bradley heard the words,
alam
(pain)
and
iltihaab
(inflammation) mentioned, probably referring to his wounds, which needed proper medication.

    The old man got up to his feet, glanced at the  ancestral clock on the wall and said,
“Sa’ti ithna’asr wa nus, el hinn”. 
It’s 12.30 AM now.”

    He said he’d drive them to the hospital, but must first change his night clothes. He left them sitting in the living room, only to return soon with a glass of water and two tablets and said to Bradley. “
Khod, dawa lal alam.
Take, medicine for pain.”

   
“Shookran,”
Jonathan gratefully accepted the pills.   

    Hisham  went inside one of the corridor rooms, and they could hear voices speaking inside; one of them a female’s.   

    Jameel checked the landline for the ringtone and gave it to Bradley.  The latter dialed the number and the station chief responded on the first ring.

    “Sir, we are leaving now for the hospital in a black Mercedes...  The farmer agreed to drive us up there… but he does not have a cellphone.” 

    He paused to listen to a question from Richard Darwin, then reply, “No. Only the farmer… and the two of us. I see him returning... ”

    “Jonathan, you sound bad.  Leave now. Don’t go inside the clinic when you get there. Stay away from view somewhere inside the compound.  Our people will almost be there.  Tell Jameel to make himself visible when he sees an SUV coming… the Regn. Plate No. is 
Liban* M401142. 
Take a moment to remember it… the vehicle’s color is brown,” and after a small  pause, “There will be two men, both local,  and the driver will say the code:
Cedars of Lebanon
in Arabic. They will take care of you. Good luck, Jonathan.  See ya’ soon,” his boss ended on a brighter note.

    Hisham returned dressed up and gestured to them to follow him out of the living room. 

    The old black color Mercedes was in the shed at the side of the farm house.  They got into the car and the farmer turned it around towards the rural road.

    Apparently, Hisham knew where the Beqa’a Hospital was.

    He drove along for about fifteen minutes and then took the side road coming to a one-storey structure.

    Beqa’a Hospital, inside a small copound wall by the side of the road, looked more like a clinic and was not very well lit.  The wide front door was shut and two electric lamps burned on either side.

    Jameel asked the farmer to stop outside the compound.  Hisham man understood and obliged; he would not want to be there if the doctor or medical attendants raised questions.

   
‘Deer balakum.  Ma'a Salama. 
Take care.  Goodbye.

   
“Fi Amanillah.
In God’s care.” Jameel reciprocated.

    Hisham turned around his old black Mercedes and drove away back to his farm house.