Chapter One
Wazir Akbar Khan:
Northern Kabul, Afghanistan
“The top ten signs you are getting too old for this shit are…”
Viviana smiled. She loved hearing the laughter of her colleagues, which was the reason she came up with new top ten list countdowns à la David Letterman on a near daily basis. That and the fact it helped take her mind off how boring it was in the CIA safe house.
For the past two months she had been acting as a translator between interrogators and their jihadist prisoners. All day long she sat in boring, sensory deprived interrogation cells only to return “home” to a boring, sensory deprived safe house. Simply put, it was too risky to leave the walled shelter these days. If an American hostage was a jihadist’s dream come true, an American employed by the U.S. government was the wet, nocturnal version of it. It was a reality she knew firsthand all too well.
Not that she was complaining about the lack of chaos and drama—quite the opposite. Dr. Lincoln would take boredom over strife any day of the week.
Viviana shared the estate with four soldiers and two cyber-analysts. When they left the compound they did so as a pretend family, keeping up the illusion via native dress and customs that their household consisted of two brothers and their obedient wives. On the upside, she only had to get into character long enough to enter and exit the CIA installation. On the downside, it was the only movement she’d had in over eight weeks.
“Number ten,” Viviana said as Corporal John Williams put her dinner in front of her. “Oh thanks, John. Looks good!”
Her “husband” grinned as he sat at the table with the rest of their make-believe family. John couldn’t have been older than twenty-five so she constantly teased him that he must be a cougar-lover if he’d “married” a thirty-six-year-old such as herself. He’d let her know in no uncertain terms he was more than willing to go there for real, but Viviana just couldn’t see herself with a guy that young. The mere thought made her feel like a creeper.
“You were saying?” Corporal Williams asked.
Viviana nodded. “Not that our sperm of a husband is old enough to be too old for anything, but the number ten sign you are getting too old for this shit is…”
Everyone at the table laughed. They loved this game—and teasing John—as much as she did.
“You can no longer tell if you’re hot because of the climate or because you’re going menopausal,” Viviana stated, grinning.
Boisterous amusement ensued. “You aren’t old enough for that either, Vivi,” husband number two, Analyst Majid Khan, laughed. “But it would explain the bitchiness if you were.”
“Boom!” She clapped her hands and chuckled at the American born Muslim of Afghan descent. “Okay your turn, smart ass!”
Majid never passed on his turn. He was as quick-witted and humorous as she was. “The number nine sign you are getting too old for this shit,” he returned, “is when you nod off during an air raid.”
Viviana slapped her hand on the table. She laughed as hard as the rest of their little family. By the time they reached number one on that night’s top ten, there wasn’t a dry eye in the dining room. They poured wine, toasted each other, and happily consumed their dinner together.
“It’s my turn to cook tomorrow,” Viviana reminded the group. She grinned. “I know everyonelooooovesVivi’s cooking night!”
“Oh fuck me,” John moaned. “I’ll start taking an antibiotic now.”
* * * * *
“Sorry I’m late,” Viviana said to Agent Bill Cosgrove as she removed her niqab and cloak. Now wearing only black suit pants and a simple but classy white, silk shirt, she ran a hand through her wild mane of dark blonde curls. Her turquoise eyes sparkled as she smiled at the interrogator she’d been assigned to today. She didn’t particularly care for Cosgrove on a personal level, but she always strove to keep things professional and cordial. “Corporal Williams drove today. Need I say more?”
“No,” Bill returned. “That explanation covers everything.”
“He kept yelling at the camels.” She sighed. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t give a shit.”
The agent handed her a cup of coffee and a folder. “We landed a big fish, Viviana.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Dolphin? Shark?”
“Try a blue whale.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow. That major of a player?”
Bill nodded. “Muhammad al-Jihad al-Raqqah. Number two on the FBI’s Most Wanted, second only to the self-proclaimed caliph himself.”
“Fuck me,” Viviana murmured. She shook her head. “I’m assuming I don’t need to put the niqab back on before we go in?”
