Nick Hahn's Blog, page 7

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

Cover of my new book, out later this year, currently in edit, very excited.

 

 

(Back cover summary)

 

Alex Wintour is the seventeen-year-old daughter of the US Ambassador to Pakistan. She becomes the target of a brutal terrorist kidnapping and the focal point between Mustafa, the Karachi-born US-educated Navy Seal assigned to rescue her and Omar, the young Al Qaeda operative who interrogates her. His command of English and American culture is based on his living in Kansas as a foreign exchange student.

He would turn out to be the perfect foil for Alex.

The plot twists and turns with finesse as Mustafa balances his relationship with Ambassador Wintour, his wife Sally and his extended family in Karachi.

The connection between Mustafa and his partner and lover, Dalia, the beautiful Israeli assassin who works for Mossad, the world’s most efficient killing machine, complicates his mission and may compromise his mission to rescue Alex.

 

This book has it all, political intrigue, conflict, romance, and ideology. Western culture and economics clash with Muslim poverty and hopelessness in a squalid interrogation hut in the foothills of the Hindu Kush of Western Pakistan.

 

Alex and Omar are intellectual equals, a relationship complicated by the Stockholm syndrome, they’re attracted to each other, emotionally and physically.

The story gives you a view of Muslim, American relations so different from today’s media, you’ll question every assumption you’ve ever made.

Don’t miss this one, as current as today’s headlines.

 

The Ambassador’s Daughter-Alex

(Alex is undergoing her first interrogation with Omar, the young terrorist who is conflicted between his commitment to Al Qaeda and his attraction to Alex) 

There was chemistry between us, we both knew it, a combination of looks, personality,

and intellect driving the discussion beyond victim and captor. Some might call it the Law Of Attraction, that new age maxim that “like attracts like”  defined as either negative or positive depending on your mindset. In this case, my feelings for Omar were in a war zone, struggling back and forth from hate to empathy with the latter winning the battle if not the war. I liked this man, he was intellectually committed but not a fanatic, he could be turned, not sure I could do it.

 

He was treating me like dirt, slapping and abusing me and yet I felt something for him, something nurturing and consoling. I didn’t want to like him and God knows I didn’t want to feel attracted to him on a physical level and yet I couldn’t deny these thoughts. There was a spark, like a flint on steel, not yet a flame, but smoldering.

 

. “You’re not my friend Omar, you’re my enemy. You’re holding me against my will. You’ll soon discover that US foreign policy includes the rescue of State Department employees from creeps like you. Kidnapping me was a mistake, a big mistake and one that you and your gang of thugs will live to regret. I may not survive this ordeal but be assured, this mistake raises the bar on US search and destroy, they’ll find you and they’ll destroy you and your nest of snakes. We don’t negotiate with creeps like you, you’ve put your foot into a pile of shit

We don’t negotiate with creeps like you, you’ve put your foot into a pile of shit Mr Omar, the stink will follow you to a violent death, trust me.

He screamed; “enough woman” and slapped me , harder this time.

 

A nod towards Aalee ended the interrogation. He went to the door and shouted in Arabic, “get her out of here.”  My keeper appeared instantly. She took my elbow, I jerked it away with a “fuck off lady” and followed her.

 

 

 

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

Cover of my new book, out later this year, currently in edit, very excited.

 

 

(Back cover summary)

 

Alex Wintour is the seventeen-year-old daughter of the US Ambassador to Pakistan. She becomes the target of a brutal terrorist kidnapping and the focal point between Mustafa, the Karachi-born US-educated Navy Seal assigned to rescue her and Omar, the young Al Qaeda operative who interrogates her. His command of English and American culture is based on his living in Kansas as a foreign exchange student. He would turn out to be the perfect foil for Alex.

 

The plot twists and turns with finesse as Mustafa balances his relationship with Ambassador Wintour, his wife Sally and his extended family in Karachi.

 

The connection between Mustafa and his partner and lover, Dalia, the beautiful Israeli assassin who works for Mossad, the world’s most efficient killing machine, complicates his mission and may compromise his mission to rescue Alex.

 

This book has it all, political intrigue, conflict, romance, and ideology. Western culture and economics clash with Muslim poverty and hopelessness in a squalid interrogation hut in the foothills of the Hindu Kush of Western Pakistan.

 

Alex and Omar are intellectual equals, a relationship complicated by the Stockholm syndrome, they’re attracted to each other, emotionally and physically.

The story gives you a view of Muslim, American relations so different from today’s media, you’ll question every assumption you’ve ever made.

Don’t miss this one, as current as today’s headlines.

 

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

(Alex Wintour undergoing her first interrogation by Omar, the young terrorist assigned to her case by the elders. He is cruel at first but slowly responds to his forbidden attraction for this girl.)

We were briefed on Islam and the cultural, religious and historical differences between these sects, Sunni and Shia, and their geopolitical significance in the Muslim world. It is almost impossible to [image error]keep it straight. There is so much cross over and misunderstanding between the two. Omar is a Sunni as are most Muslims in Pakistan and over 90% of the Muslim world. The differences are historical, having more to do with political leadership and governance than religion. The Koran and its tenets are common to both but interpretation varies widely.

 

My mind skipped from escape to rescue to acquiescence. I wanted to talk with Max.

 

Omar was not smiling or smirking. He was challenging, competitive. He seemed to be saying: “How can a woman defy me, especially a western woman?”

 

He was right, I was defying him, this guy was with a woman the likes of which he’s never seen before. A woman comfortable in her own skin, a woman taught to be independent, a woman who’s relations with men were equal, balanced and comfortable. Muslim women were trained from birth to be subservient to men, they didn’t know any other way. I felt sorry for them.

I would never conform to Muslim attitudes towards women. The idea that women were somehow inferior and needed to be forced into stereotypical roles with dress codes, lack of education and submissiveness was foreign to Western thought and culture, especially my generation.

 

Omar spoke perfect English with a broken Pakistani accent. He used American slang on occasion, his syntax indicated time in the US or Canada maybe. Muslim women were forbidden to speak until spoken too. I was not a Muslim woman.

 

“Tell me Mr. Omar, when were you living in the US?”

 

The question shocked him. He squinted, his eyes turning into narrow slits. His expression was threatening as he tensed and moved his arm to a menacing position. I braced for the blow that didn’t come.

 

Omar glanced at Abdul Aalee who stood motionless in the back of the room. It was not clear if Allee spoke or understood English. I assumed the latter.

 

He spoke in very low tones, almost a whisper, as he replied.

 

“You know nothing about me or my background, woman. Silence!”

 

I ignored him.

 

“I know more about you than you think. Your speech betrays you.  You spent time in the American Midwest or Canada maybe? You speak English like you’ve been in Indiana or Kansas maybe. Is this not so, Mr. Omar?”

 

Again he glared and again he glanced at Allee. I didn’t know what to expect, either he would punish me physically or lock me in my room without meals or exercise privileges. I’d hope for the former. Meals with the others and walking in the yard were essential to my health. A few more slaps meant nothing.

 

I was shocked, he answered with an acquiescence in his tone, as if he had discovered an old friend or compatriot.

 

“Have you ever been to Kansas?”

 

Oh my God, what a breakthrough! After all this, it turns out my hunch, and that’s all it was, is right. Omar had spent time in America. Was it as a tourist or a student or perhaps the member of a terrorist cell? We knew that terrorists preferred small towns in the Midwest. Their modus operandi were to blend into the community as newsstand owners or taxi drivers minimizing attention to themselves.

 

I smiled weakly, nodded my head and responded:

“Yes, Omar, I’ve been to Kansas”.

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

 

[image error] Omar is the young terrorist assigned to interrogate Alex. He was educated in the US, his English is perfect, his understanding of American culture is not. His relationship with Alex drives the narrative of this book!

“Next morning we served a meal. We didn’t use western terms like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The food consisted of hot tea, hard boiled eggs, assorted vegetables, stale bread and sour cream, no meat. The captives ate with us, escorted into the kitchen and seated at a long wooden table. Alex came in first. Like last night, she was defiant, walked erect with her head held high, this young infidel had an attitude even though I knew she was scared, I liked that. There was two of them, the girl and the aid worker we’d been holding.  They were no longer in restraints. Our location was remote and secure. We posted 24-hour guards and released the Rottweiler’s at night. The people in this village were Taliban. The mere sight of a westerner would alarm them. She was wearing the hijab, exposing her face, the hair, visible around the edges, was blonde, with highlights, she was obviously not Muslim.

 

“Forgive me, Allah, for this distraction”

Only trained interrogators spoke to captives. I was not trained but my US experience was an exception in this case. Talk was not on my mind. It had more to do with emotions and the morning ache in my groin.

In Pakistan, marriages were arranged by the families. In extreme cases, the bride and groom never met until the day of the ceremony.  This arrangement has advantages. Issues of wealth, education, culture, language, and religion dominate any marriage once the passion subsides and the day to day living and child rearing takes over. After seeing her, I began to understand the wisdom of these customs. When you meet a woman like Alex, passion trumps the practical. It controls you, it’s addictive, nothing else matters except release and the promise of more. Like drugs and alcohol, it ignores culture, language, and wealth. Passion is a narcotic, more powerful than poppies. Passion drives life and all its permutations–sex, work, creativity, revolution. Without passion, there would be no America, no Al Qaeda and no Taliban. There is no recovery program for passion except the Koran. A literal interpretation of the Koran channels passion. It moves us to a higher place, converts our emotions to actions, motivates and rewards the ultimate sacrifice: taking one’s own life in the service of Allah and his holy war against the West.

 

My thoughts consumed me in the silence of the moment. This girl, this daughter of Satan, continued to stare at me. Her expression was blank, no emotion, no passion. No wonder we were winning in our unequal battle with the West.”

 

 

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

Alex arrives at the Taliban Village, it’s dusk, the sun is setting behind the Hindu Kush Mountains to the West. She’s tired, sore, hungry and terrified. She wants her parents, her boyfriend, and[image error] Beepa.

“I think this must be a dream, that I’ll wake any moment and be back at the Embassy in my pink and white bedroom with the Barbi Collection on the dresser and Beepa, the soft cuddly monkey I received when I was a baby.
 
Beepa was my childhood companion, he went with me everywhere, he slept with me, played with me and made cookies with me. If not for Sally, he would have bathed with me. He was my security, he protected me from the world, he made me feel safe and loved, I needed him, now!.”
 
The path up the hill was steep and rocky, my thin sneakers are not enough protection. I shouldn’t be daydreaming, I should be thinking about escape, about how I’ll react should one of these thugs come on to me.
 
They would come early morning, after the call to prayer, just before sunrise. 
 
Billy told me how he woke every day with a hard-on and sticky sheets. I giggled at this, I would say, “come on Billy, you must have been sleepwalking”,  he would grin and respond, “nope, sleep-fucking”.
 
Christ, I’m going be tortured and raped in the morning and all I can think about are Billy Watson’s  wet-dreams.
 
Get it together girl, this isn’t a dream.”

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

Seals Team-6 is a legend in Pakistan, headed up by US Navy Master Chief, Bull Casey, a tough [image error]E-9, the highest ranking non-com in the Navy. The tattoo on his forearm said it all, ‘Don’t Tread On Me’.

Casey got his stripes the old fashioned way, through the ranks, he earned them.  He was respected by his peers, his men loved him, not a man on that team that wouldn’t take a bullet for Bull Casey.

We met in basic training, I was a recruit, Casey a drill Sargent. He couldn’t break me down physically or mentally, God knows he tried. That SOB busted my balls for seven long weeks of BUD’s training at Coronado, at the end of it all I found myself respecting the bastard, if not liking him.

I hadn’t seen him since graduation, not surprising I’d find him in an NCO club.

I smiled when the waitress said the beer was on the gentleman sitting at the bar. That was no gentleman, it was Casey, the insignia on the sleeve of his dress blues told you all you needed to know, red stripes, three stars and an eagle, not a man alive going to fuck with him.

I heard a rumor he was in town, seemed appropriate we’d meet in an NCO club, our last meeting in California was in the same place, they all looked the same.

He turned on the stool, I smiled and nodded. The long neck in my hand tipped forward, his did the same, he headed for my table.

 

 

 

The Ambassador’s Daughter, by Nick Hahn, due 2017

MUSTAFA

[image error] Mustafa

 

 

 

 

 

I started in the back streets of Karachi, there are no street names or addresses. You either knew where you were going or you didn’t get there. This is the cultural backwater of the country, it all comes together here,  a mélange of sights, sounds and smells. This, for me, is what Pakistan is all about, not the sanitized streets of Islamabad or the commercial offices of Lahore. This is where light and dark are indistinguishable, where good and evil mix in a cauldron of grey matter.

Here a man will risk his life betraying Al Qaeda for a price.  Here a man will risk his life defending his family name.

Here I will find Alex.

The Ambassador’s Daughter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

The Ambassador’s Daughter

“Jesus Mustafa, what the fuck is going on, I was right there, in their grasp, they could have had a US Ambassador, instead they take a 16-year-old girl, why, tell me why?”

He was still in shock, when he clears his mind and gets his emotions under control he’ll understand that we’re dealing with a highly sophisticated adversary.

Al Qaeda hasn’t terrified the western world because they’re brutal maniacs, they’ve done it because they’re calculating terrorists with a game-plan. They know what they’re doing, it’s about power and control, this kidnapping was planned from the day the Wintour’s transfer was announced in the Daily Express, the local Urdu language newspaper.

An Ambassador’s daughter was more valuable than the Ambassador. Her rescue is axiomatic, the Ambassador would bend, twist or break US policy. The kidnappers knew this, they would hold out, not for money, they’re looking at Guantanamo, high-profile prisoners, prisoners worth the life of an Ambassador’s daughter.

DRONE by Nick Hahn, due 2017, Chapter One

  Chapter One

     SLIM

I was born and raised on the South/West side of Chicago; my father was a Rastafarian pothead who walked out on us when I was two. My mother, Juanita, worked nights cleaning office buildings, to make ends meet for my three younger sisters and me. She did a little hooking on the side; the latter was more profitable than office cleaning.

She worked Rush Street on weekends; her pimp promoted her as the best trick in the loop, most clients agreed, at least the sober ones.

Juanita could do ten to fifteen tricks a night without complaining; the average time with a client was fifteen to thirty minutes depending on services rendered. Pimp (he never mentioned his name) took care of Juanita, often paying her a performance bonus. There was competition on the street; pimps would entice the better performers to join their stable for a bigger cut or access to the better corners. Top girls were often tattooed with the pimp’s initials; branding was catching on.

Juanita refused to let Pimp put his stylized  P in red, white and blue anywhere on her body; some things were sacred after all and besides she might opt for free agency one day.

I knew that when Juanita got home late, it meant business was good, and there’d be extra on the table. She didn’t take food stamps or welfare she was a naturalized citizen and felt it was unpatriotic. Juanita was a business woman an entrepreneur who paid her taxes; it was the American way.

I was a street kid, living by my wits, not by my brawn which was anemic. My friends looked to me for solutions, not muscle. I was clever and dependable, and the neighborhood knew it.

By the time I was fifteenI had saved $1200 in small bills running errands for the South Side cartels. I appreciated the value of a dollar and didn’t spend foolishly. I stashed my money in two tin cans, one fit into the other providing double thickness. I hid it beneath the welfare housing project in Pilsen, the Latino barrio on Chicago’s lower west side where we lived. The rats were my only concern; they were big as cats eating anything not nailed down, one reason I used double cans.

The streets in Pilsen were dangerous for most but not for me; danger was a sign of competition between the cartels, I thrived on it.  They needed the services of a neutral  currier, one who kept his mouth shut and was dependable. They preferred me to a phone call, no record of the transaction if the Feds were tapping them, curriers were expendable.

I never argued, I always believed negotiation was better than confrontation. Leave something on the table was my motto, my clients left feeling good about the deal and good about Magic Slim. For me a smaller cut of a larger pie made sense, why risk market share by being greedy.

When I turned eighteen and decided to leave home Juanita pushed a crisp $100 bill into my shirt pocket, gave me a big hug and a kiss and wished me well as I boarded that Greyhound for Cleveland, for her it was one less mouth to feed. I never told her about the money under the building, I learned early to trust no one but yourself, your own Mother could be compromised.  Going to Cleveland was a gamble but I figured it was better to be a big fish in a smaller pond . Cleveland was a growing market largely ignored by the cartels. It was in Cleveland that I would become the most successful pornographic film producer in America.

My studio was a key link in a human traffic supply chain stretching from the former Soviet Republics in Eastern Europe to the United States. Trafficking accounts for an estimated $32 billion in annual trade with sex slavery and pornographic film production accounting for the greatest percentage.

Market research drove my business, I eliminated all but the most profitable segments of the market, sexual exploitation of minors and pornographic film production.

Business was booming.

There were two main sources feeding my chain, Eastern Europe and Latin America. There were  others , of course, including Asia and the Middle East but I didn’t have the infrastructure or logistics to support more. If clients wanted to do Asian I referred them to a house that specialized. My friend Mr Chin ran a quality house and appreciated the referrals. He reciprocated in kind, he didn’t manage Latinos or Whites he referred those clients to me, Chin and I understood each other and often compared notes.

The girls from Eastern Europe were smuggled across the Canadian border, they were  caucasian, under age and naive. Some were snatched from streets and school yards in Chechnya and Dagistan while others were sold by  destitute parents who couldn’t afford them. The “mules” or travel agents as I called them were typically Russian or Kazakh and would handle all export arrangements. The girls would board tramp steamers as human cargo. They were locked in a dormitory like state room built into the forward hold of the ship, it had a toilet and bunk beds but no room to walk or stretch. The noise from the ship’s engine room was deafening and the constant smell of diesel fuel, deification and vomit kept the ship’s crew on deck and away from the girls. When they reached Nova Scotia, they were herded out of the bulkhead at night. They were taken to a vacant dormitory for a quick shower so their smell wouldn’t alert the border guards as they crossed into the US illegally.

Once in Northern New England they would be separated according to prearranged destinations. The girls destined for Cleveland would board my large RV with one way glass, the girls could look out but no one could look in. The RV was paid for, and it was first class, I wanted my girls to know they were in professional hands.

My drivers and their helpers were selected with extreme care, they were carrying valuable cargo and under no circumstances were they to fraternize with the girls, to do so would provoke my wrath which often meant the last thing they would ever do.

Best in-class were advertised in international style magazines with code words. These codes were known only to select clients and certain intermediaries approved by Slim. This elaborate distribution system was part of Slim’s business model, his clients paid an annual subscription fee for the on-line dictionary, code words and descriptions were revised monthly.

An interested client would pay an access fee for further information that included a set of professional  photographs, a video and voice recordings of the model addressing the client by name.  Should the client accept, a detailed travel itinerary was submitted calling for first class travel and accommodation.  Slim required a letter of understanding spelling out terms and conditions and a 50% deposit. He didn’t like contracts, his word was his bond, everyone along the chain knew that.

This was a classic value chain with each link making a contribution.  My trainers were the best, most had been or still were film stars featured in porn videos. I employed both male and female trainers, most were bilingual in English and Russian, the women made the girls feel safe. All training classes had male and female instructors and a variety of training aids. They used video’s and live demonstrations on technique in the use of condoms, dildos and other toys. These classes were behind a two way wall length mirror so students could see themselves and make necessary corrections. We taped these training sessions, there was a market for rehearsals especially in the volume end of the market.  Each class of girls was judged strictly on the merits. The fast learners went on to advanced training. They learned proper etiquette, social skills and party games. They learned how to dress, apply makeup and discuss world events. These girls were a bit older, sixteen to twenty thinking they were twenty five to thirty.

The premium girls were in demand, there never seemed to be enough of them. They were treated like first dates, not hookers enjoying perks like corporate jets, hotel suites and luxury yachts. They were expected to talk and act like socialites in public but behave like porn stars in the bedroom. They learned to love this life-style, most never wanted out, it meant back to the barrios if they were lucky but more likely meant back to the bottom of the chain for violent abuse at the hands of depraved clients who got off torturing the girls.

The others, the girls not as pretty or smart or accepting, the girls who thought to much about going home and resisted training these were Slim’s problem children. At an average age of 14 they would stay in the US where client expectations were less demanding. Pole dancing, lap dancing and prostitution were legal in Los Vegas appealing to the convention trade and Japanese tourists. Slim was a full service supplier, his girls were trained for specific customer demographics. Like Chevrolet’ vrs Cadillac it’s all about price, performance and style. Slim was the General Motors of worldwide trafficking, he offered products for every taste and price point.

He thought of it as cutting and polishing rough diamonds, some would be destined for grinding wheels while others would be featured at Tiffany’s.  Slim was particular about his vendors, he only did business with those who shared his understanding of quality control. There was an old saying on the street, ‘garbage in garbage out’ Slim would not accept garbage from his vendors his reputation depended on upon it. His supply chain integrity was impeccable.  He was selling quality, that meant each link in the chain was important, a classic supply chain, value addition through processing, training, and logistics.

Slim’s reputation was international, if you wanted to maximize return on investment you sent your assets to Slim. He wasn’t the cheapest but he was the best. Girls trained in his building were traditionally high earners and the pimps and video producers were more than willing to pay a premium on the market, they received a good return on their investment.

***