INTO THE FIRE
Thirty-four
The Old City District of the ancient city of Sana'a lay in relative quiet, the remains of the day's heat trapped there by the surrounding mountains. Though the Yemen sky was clear and filled with stars, there was no moon beyond the obscure profiles of buildings and minarets. Bane had hoped for clouds on this night. Through night vision binoculars he watched from a fourth story rooftop as his men closed in upon a low building across from his location. Anyone without night vision technology would never see the League's men. They had become one with the night, silent, slipping like spirits from narrow alleys, closing upon the building. Others glided silently from Bane's roof along lines that took them to the rooftop of the target building—a short distance, for the structures in this district were tightly packed. Though all of Bane's operatives wore coms, not a word of command was given nor needed, for everyone knew his job intimately, knew his entry point, exit point, and targets. If all went as planned, his men would be in and out of the building within a span of five minutes.
Barsad, beside him, kept his binoculars trained upon the front door, but as expected no one emerged. No, those inside would not post obvious guards outside. That would draw attention. Instead the armed men would be inside out of sight.
He glanced at Barsad. As usual during an op, Barsad's expression was stoic, professional. Bane knew his friend much preferred to be down on the ground with their brothers where the action lay. But his duty was as much to Bane's safety as it was to the mission. That had not changed in the five years since Barsad had joined the League. On some ops Bane took a more active role, times that Barsad lived for, times when he could use the skills that he had been taught by his brothers, including Bane. But over the years Bane's old injuries had hampered him more and more, slowing him, leaving him to rely more on physical power than the stealth of his ninjutsu. It was something he bitterly regretted, but there was little help for the continued deterioration of his battered body. This reality was yet another reason why Barsad never left his side if at all possible.
Soon Barsad exchanged his binoculars for his Barrett sniper rifle. Behind the mask, Bane's scarred lips twisted with sardonic amusement as he thought of how much Barsad loved that rifle. Prior to joining the League, Barsad had lacked the resources to acquire whatever weapons he desired and modify them to his mercenary heart's content. Bane often teased Barsad that he was certain his lieutenant slept with the Barrett.
Now Barsad trained the night vision scope upon the target building, ready to eliminate anyone who attempted to enter or cut off the League's men once they were inside.
Bane glanced at his watch. One minute more. The seconds ticked off. He used his regulated breathing to count down the time. It took concentration to modulate his breaths so the mask's amplification did not give away his position while on such operations.
Barsad spoke into his com, "Hafif?"
"Inbound," came the response.
Bane thought briefly of Hafif from his early days with the League. Hafif had been a part of the small team that had assisted in Bane's assassination of his grandfather, Thomas Dorrance, and his journey to meet his father, Edmund. The Arab had taken some time to warm up to Bane, but in time he had grown to respect Bane and was now one of Bane's most trusted operatives. Hafif had been fortunate enough to be away from the League's Bhutan base when Bruce Wayne had betrayed them all.
Within seconds it began—Bane watched his men vanish inside the building. Silencers and muzzle suppressors would mask the violence that would be taking place. He glanced at his watch, waited with fingers unwittingly twitching against the binoculars. He easily imagined being inside the building, moving through the rooms with stealth and speed, using his gun and—when necessary—a silent, deadly knife.
An unexpected memory slipped through his focus—the knife he had had in prison. His mother had acquired it through means unknown to Bane, before he was even able to walk. And once he was old enough to leave his cell under Doctor Assad's supervision, his mother had him carry the knife with him, secreted inside his teddy bear, Osito. The knife had saved his life on more than one occasion and had killed two inmates as well. Once Talia had been old enough to wield the weapon, Bane had bequeathed it to her. She had carried it with pride because it had belonged to him. But before she had gone to Gotham she had returned it to him, though he had insisted she keep it.
"It should be yours, habibi," she had said. "Your mother gave it to you. It's all you have left of her. I have Papa's knife to keep me safe. It's only fitting that we should each carry something from them to remind us of all that we owe them."
As usual, he could argue little against such sound judgment. Since then, he carried the knife with him always. In fact, he rarely carried any other weapon. With Barsad and his obsessive, personal arsenal always near at hand, he required few bullets himself.
Bane swung his binoculars up the narrow, deserted street. Movement, barely seen. A van with headlights doused rolled into view as anticipated, precisely on time. Its approach was timed exactly, and just as it halted, dark forms emerged from the building, four of them with the two targets. The rest of the tactical team would be vanishing into the night through various other avenues. Hafif's van had barely come to a stop to gather its passengers before it sped away.
Without a word, Bane and Barsad stood as one. Barsad shouldered his heavy rifle and drew his pistol. Bane led the way off the roof, his lieutenant covering his back as always.
###
Jabir al-Gharsi had been with the League of Shadows for two years. Though he was only twenty-seven years old, he now looked much older, thanks to days of beatings and torture at the hands of the CIA agent who—hooded, bound, and gagged ever since the extraction—sat in the rear seat of the SUV with Jabir. While the agent made no sound, Bane—in the passenger's seat—could easily hear Jabir's labored breaths as the young man struggled to master his pain. Bane had not allowed the Yemeni to receive any medical treatment prior to being transferred from Hafif's van to the SUV. To his credit, Jabir had not requested any either.
The vehicle sped through the night, Sana'a far behind. Barsad, as silent as his passengers, was behind the wheel. Bane calculated that they would reach the airstrip within minutes at this rate of speed.
As expected, the sleek Challenger 300 awaited them, fueled and ready for take-off. Barsad drove the battered SUV to the edge of the crude runway and switched off the lights.
"Get him aboard," Bane rumbled to Barsad.
Barsad's glance flicked in Jabir's direction then back to Bane whose stare never left him. Then his lieutenant nodded and went to retrieve his rifle and gear before roughly escorting the wounded CIA agent from the vehicle. Then Bane moved to the seat the agent had vacated, leaving the door open to allow the cooling desert air inside.
"Brother," Bane said to Jabir, his voice quiet but hard.
Barely awake, Jabir took in a raspy breath. His head lolled back against the seat, one eye swollen shut, both eyes ringed by dark shadows from lack of sleep. His eyelid fluttered as he concentrated on Bane. He wore only a torn, bloody undershirt and dirty underwear beneath a cloaking blanket that one of his brothers had given him in the van. Bane's large hand rested upon Jabir's shoulder. The young man sank slightly beneath the weighty grip, his mouth open as he struggled to breathe.
"What did you tell them, Jabir?" Bane's question came out in almost a patient, fatherly tone. He could see the man was slipping away from him. He needed information before unconsciousness could reclaim the Yemini.
Painstakingly Jabir managed to shake his head ever so slightly, his swollen, split lips striving to form the word, "Nothing."
Of course Jabir would believe himself to be telling the truth, but Bane knew the power of benzodiazepines and barbiturates upon prisoners. After all, he had employed them himself on enemies of the League, some of whom were now finishing their days in the bowels of the pit prison. Jabir could have said much during his endless days of torment and not even remember what he had revealed.
Bane's hand fell away from the young man. He remembered the day Jabir had been initiated into the League. So much pride on the Yemini's face. He had come from nothing, an orphan living in the streets of Al Hudaydah. Resourceful, he had survived into adulthood and eventually was recruited by al-Qaeda, but he had quickly become disenchanted with the organization. The League had infiltrated the various branches of the terrorist organization, and their Yemini operative had recommended the young man to Bane.
Jabir did his best to hold onto his commander's gaze, though the struggle to maintain consciousness was difficult. Apology there, shame. More pronounced than even the physical pain.
"We cannot afford mistakes, brother," Bane said.
Jabir nodded shallowly.
"You know this, of course," Bane continued. "And so you know what must be done."
"Yes," Jabir whispered, momentarily closed his eyes as if relieved.
Bane reached for his Glock. "The choice is yours. By your own hand or mine?"
Jabir's shaking left hand came up. Bane knew him to be right-handed, but not enough remained of his right hand to be useful for such a task. With a satisfied nod, Bane removed the safety and handed the pistol to Jabir. The young man's fingers slowly embraced the grip. Bane could see that it took every remaining ounce of strength and concentration in Jabir to lift the weapon. He looked a final time at Bane, and a weak spark of hope momentarily gave life to his dark eyes, hope that his commander was at least proud of his brave resolve to pay for his failings. Bane, however, showed nothing, nothing but patience until his orders were carried out, then with the report of the pistol still ringing in his ears, he lumbered toward the jet.
###
Bane relaxed back into the buttery softness of the leather seat and allowed a deep sigh to filter through his mask as he momentarily closed his eyes. Across the aisle Barsad sank into his own seat, now free of his rifle.
As the jet engines whined into acceleration, Bane opened his eyes, stared aft to the CIA agent who sat on the floor—still bound and hooded—leaning against the bulkhead. Blood had seeped through the crude bandage on his leg where he had been shot. The man squirmed slightly, belying his discomfort. With a scowl, Bane turned away from him and picked up the latest issue of Science from the small table in front of him.
His fingers easily located the article once again: The Weaponization of Fusion Reactors by Doctor Leonid Pavel. Bane smiled to himself.
"How many times you gonna read that?" Barsad said with a cocked grin amidst his heavy stubble, his hooded eyes sleepier than usual. "You must have it memorized by now."
Bane grunted as he began to read. Indeed, he had devoured the article half a dozen times on the flight to Yemen. And he would read it several times more on the way back to 'Eth Alth'eban. He would indeed have its contents memorized in time.
His finger jabbed at the photograph of the Russian scientist who had written the paper on which the article had been based. "He is our priority now, brother. Now that this is out in the world our task has just been made even more difficult. We must redouble our efforts."
"Well," Barsad kept his voice as low as he could and still be heard over the engines as the Challenger sped over the jarring airstrip, "hopefully Jabir didn't compromise the efforts we've already made."
"I don't believe he has. But," Bane's eyes flicked toward the agent, "time will tell."
Once they were airborne, the steward provided both men drinks and food. When Bane had satisfied his appetite and thirst, he donned his mask again.
"Sleep," he ordered Barsad. "Our friend will give us no trouble."
"If anyone should sleep, it's you. When's the last time your head hit a pillow?"
"I said sleep, brother, not nag."
"Humph," Barsad snorted. And knowing when to argue with his chief and when to refrain, Barsad wisely slumped lower and reclined his seat slightly. But the pistol remained in his grip, though he closed his eyes. "And what are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm going to make a phone call."
Barsad's eyes opened with half-hidden alarm and awareness. "With him on board?"
"It won't matter what he hears," Bane said indulgently. "He won't live to tell anyone."
Barsad grinned, though his usual caution tempered the expression. "You have a point."
Bane's inherent wariness, however, urged him from his chair, to a seat just behind the forward bulkhead. There he called Talia. As the phone rang in Gotham, he glanced at his watch. Hopefully she was not in a meeting. In his mind's eye he saw her in the boardroom at Chase Global, the city as a backdrop beyond the bank of windows, Talia's slim figure dressed to perfection in high heels and a dark suit, her skirt hugging her just short of indiscretion, her long hair allowed to spill around her shoulders like a sable waterfall. Bane closed his eyes, but instead of the image of a successful businesswoman, he saw Talia in the pit as a child, dressed in threadbare clothing, destitute but smiling, laughing at something he had said or done, somehow happy amidst her utter poverty.
"Hello?"
The sound of her voice made him smile before he said, "It is done."
"I had no doubts," Talia replied, a smile of her own in her words. "You never fail, habibi."
"We extracted the agent who was interrogating him as well."
"Good. Did Jabir reveal his true affiliation to him?"
"He claimed not."
"He was tortured, though, of course?"
"Of course."
"So he nor you can know in all certainty exactly what he revealed."
"I am confident Jabir remained silent. His training would have given him the tools necessary. But in case I am wrong, we have the operative, and one way or another he will tell us what he gleaned from Jabir."
"Very good."
Bane glanced aft, toward the table where the science journal lay. "You read the article I told you about?"
"Yes, several times. Our intelligence about the good doctor was correct, as you assured us. I told Finn that he should never doubt you. He's learning."
"Don't fault Finn. His over-abundance of caution is an asset most of the time."
She chuckled warmly, for she had grown to favor Finn Donnell both professionally and personally, similar to Bane's relationship with Barsad.
"Has Finn read the article?" Bane asked.
"Yes, of course. We discussed it at length."
"And if we have read it, then our mutual friend will have read it as well."
"You're concerned?"
"Yes. The article's connotations will worry him. We know how closely he protects his technology. And this, above all else, is the most important. You must be attentive."
"He is still a recluse. No one can get close to him. You know I have tried."
Bane scowled at this, though he knew that he should better control his personal feelings. "I know, habibati. You are not at fault. Use your lines of communication with Fox. He will understand your concerns for your investment in the energy project, so your inquiries will be understandable and cause no suspicion."
"Yes, of course. I will speak with him this week."
"Very good."
"Is there anything else, Haris? I wish we could speak longer, but I have a meeting in five minutes with Mr. Chase."
"No," Bane said reluctantly. "That is all."
Talia hesitated, a pause heavy with unsaid words, then in a softer voice, she said, "Tell Deadshot hello for me. I spoke with Jiddah yesterday, and she sends her love to both of you."
Bane smiled at the thought of Maysam. "I will tell him."
"Good-bye, then. Be careful, Haris. Always. I fear you take too many risks these days."
"Don't worry about me," he said, trying to hide his pleasure at her concerns for him. "Good-bye, little mouse."