by Chase Austin
“Who else is with you in the safe house?” Helms asked, without preamble.
“I’m alone.”
Helms cleared his throat. “I got a call from Raborn.” Helms let the gravity of the name sink in. “Josh Fletcher, a CIA operative in Afghanistan tracking the Taliban, was supposed to report at the CIA’s Gereshk base to attend a debriefing session, a few hours ago. But he has not only missed it but has also gone radio silent. His last known location is near the Helmand province where you are right now. They want our help in finding him.”
“Why us? The CIA must have enough operatives in the region?”
“Raborn needs someone who knows the terrain well. He has categorically asked for you.” Helms then gave him a detailed summary of his conversation with Raborn. Wick listened with rapt attention.
“What’s your opinion on the request?” he asked once Helms had filled him in.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Helms shared his views.
Wick knew Helms would not say something like this without giving it proper thought. Helms had one of the sharpest minds in the intelligence community and he was the only person whose opinion Wick respected.
“How many assets do the CIA have in the region?” Wick asked.
“Anywhere between twenty to thirty,” Helms said.
“Yet they come to us for a straightforward mission like this.”
“That is precisely my problem.”
“What about this missing asset, this Josh, what do we have on him?” Wick asked.
“I have already asked an analyst to look into him,” Helms said. “His bank and telephone records, his family, everything connected to him. You will get a report soon.”
“What does the CIA have on him? If he has been in the field for so long, then he must have routed a lot of intel to them.”
“Raborn is sending a folder on him in thirty minutes.”
“Did he mention how he wants this arrangement to move forward?”
“It looks like he wants us to lead this entirely,” Helms replied.
“He wants it, or he asked for it?” Wick asked.
“From his tone, he wants it to happen.”
“What about the Taliban hideouts in that region?”
“Our database shows six known hideouts near the Helmand province. The CIA is also surveilling them but nothing unusual has been noted as of now.”
“How sure are they it’s the Taliban and not ISIS?”
“Raborn seemed pretty sure.”
“What if Josh has gone silent on purpose?” Wick asked.
“That occurred to me, too.” Helms paused. “It’s a possibility, but there’s no way of knowing for sure till we get to him.”
“What does Raborn really want?”
“Meaning?”
“This all seems too flimsy. There must be something else. Something important he wants to accomplish through this arrangement. We need to know what it is,” Wick said, matter-of-factly. “Josh has been an undercover operative for a long time, long enough to know some insider truths about the agency. Maybe he came across something he didn’t like?”
Helms knew what Wick was talking about. He had been on the other side of the table and knew that the information agents were given before being sent on a mission was seldom the whole truth. Sometimes, it was quite different from ground reality. Wick knew this too, yet he went for the kill every time, without question.
“Josh is their man and yet the CIA doesn’t want to get involved. Why?” Wick continued, thinking aloud.
“Maybe they don’t want him back so bad,” Helms offered. “Maybe it suits their purpose to have him disappear.”
“If they wouldn’t have wanted him back, they would have swept it under the rug and let him die. But by involving us, they’ve only ensured this issue will not die anytime soon,” Wick said.
Helms agreed with his analysis. “What do you suggest now?” He already had a few theories on what the possible next steps could be, but he wanted to hear Wick’s opinion. Wick was in the field and he knew the possibilities there. As the NSA director and the custodian of TF-77, he knew he could force agents to follow his ideas, but he didn’t work like that. It was easy for him to conjure up any half-baked plan sitting in his soundproof cabin, but it was someone like Wick who would have to execute it. It was common sense to let agents take the lead on their missions.
“We should scope out the region and identify the possibilities. Do our homework before we agree to this offer. I have something in mind, but I need someone else to help me out.”
“Who?”
“A sniper would be good.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Eddie.”
“Eddie Vicar!” Helms suppressed his bewilderment, but Wick realized that he wasn’t happy with his choice. “He’s suspended.”
“What happened in Lithuania wasn’t completely his mistake and he still is the only one with a better trigger finger than me,” Wick said. “If we are going ahead on this, I need someone like him to have my back, and he is currently in Afghanistan.”
Helms thought about it. “You in touch with him?”
“Yes.” Wick decided not to lie.
“What about his field readiness?”
“For the last six months, he is nothing but field-ready.”
“Okay, talk to him.”
“What will you tell Raborn?”
“I’ll manage that. Also, the way he will respond to my conditions might tell us more of his intentions.”
“What if he doesn’t agree to wait? What if he wants to go ahead with the mission right away?” Wick asked.
“Then it’s his call, it’s their asset and we will steer clear,” Helms said. “But Wick, I need a game plan ASAP.”
“I will give you an update soon.”
Satisfied, Helms disconnected the call.
Chapter 4
SAM WICK LOOKED at his image in the mirror, applying the finishing touches to his makeup. His eyebrows and hair were black enough not to stand out among the locals, but his blue eyes were a different story. He used color contacts to change them to dark brown. Then, he worked on turning his olive complexion duskier.
He turned around and picked the black Perahan Tunban, the preferred clothing worn by men in this part of Afghanistan, along with a jaded full-sleeve coat. The clothes were oversized and hung loosely on him, hiding his athletic frame.
He checked his possessions one last time. His upper garment had concealed compartments in which he stashed two passports and fifty grand in the local currency. One of the passports was American. It had Wick’s real photograph with blue eyes and olive complexion, an alias, and stamps showing that he had entered the country through India. The second was an Afghan passport that showed him with dark brown eyes and a dusky complexion, the way he looked now. Both passports had credit cards taped to them while the Afghan passport also had a debit card. They were his way out of the country if things went haywire.
No one at the TF-77 knew about these two passports. Wick was in a profession where the tables could turn against him anytime, where it took only an instant for predator to become prey. In such a situation, it was best to hold some cards close to one’s chest.
Wick had been roaming in this turbulent Asian country for the past five months and his understanding of the locales, the lingo and the accents had only deepened over time. The main roads, the railway lines, the hidden alleyways, and the shady streets, were all well-etched in his memory. Still, he carried a tiny GPS unit in his old, rugged, plain-looking Casio watch to ensure he knew where he was if he ever got into trouble.
He chose not to always carry a gun on him, but he was rarely without his trusted matte-black Ka-Bar blade concealed in the right sleeve of his coat.
In his right ear, he bore a tiny wireless communication device, hidden beneath his long sweeping hair, held in check with a traditional keffiyeh.
Once certain he had everything he would need, he opened a hidd
en application on his cell phone and keyed in the passcode. It was an app created by the US Department of Defense that ran as a background process on his phone. It was used by the agents in the field to receive important data and intel in regions with low or no internet connectivity. The email folder of the app showed one unread message—from his handler, Riley. The message was crisp and had an encrypted attachment—intel on Josh that Wick had asked for. Wick skimmed the rest of the email for the password.
Sending files securely over disparate servers across the globe generally needed a sophisticated high-priced security system but DoD had found a simple, but effective, method to tackle this. They’d bury the file’s password key in the email’s content that spelled out differently for every operative, depending on their handler’s details, their coordinates, their individual key passcode and their alias for that mission. The file used a dynamic password generation technique, meaning, for two different operatives, there would be two different passwords for opening the same file. Not only that, the files would have unique mission specifics, in addition to common details, based on the recipient.
Wick synced his phone with his laptop and opened the file on the bigger screen. It was around fifty pages long, most of it redacted. Josh had obviously done a lot of work for the CIA. The first page of the report had a grainy image of Josh Fletcher at the top right. His name, vital stats and his time in the agency were listed on the left. The second page had more details on the missions he had been on, although most of the text was redacted. Wick looked through the file and then came back to the first page. He looked closely at the man he had been tasked to find. Josh Fletcher’s green eyes gazed right back at him from a gaunt, bearded face.
Chapter 5
WICK CLOSED the back door of the safe house behind him. Five minutes later, he was walking among the handful of people on the streets of Gereshk, a sleepy town in the Helmand province of Afghanistan. The thin crowd was normal for two reasons. First, it was seven in the morning, and second, a few days ago, the Taliban had attacked one of the two hospitals in the town, killing over thirty civilians and defenseless patients. The attack had come just two days after the Afghan military had announced that its month-long “Shaheen-100” operation had killed three hundred Taliban fighters in the Nangarhar province, a Taliban stronghold. That attack, in turn, had been prompted by an earlier attack, two weeks prior, in which an improvised explosive device (IED) blast had injured three U.S. soldiers in Jalalabad, the capital city of Nangarhar. In these bloody tit-for-tat battles that played out on the streets and towns of Afghanistan, it was the civilians who were inevitably caught in the crossfire.
Wick knew the U.S. war in Afghanistan was as good as over, and that it had ended in failure. Military strikes and raids against a resurgent Taliban happened from time to time, but as soon as the U.S. forces captured or killed a few, new blood was instantly infused from neighboring countries like Pakistan. The money to fund this recruitment came predominantly from the opium trade.
Helmand was the main hub of poppy cultivation. Had it been an independent country, it would have been the largest opium producer in the world. In its current state, it contributed to about half of Afghanistan’s supply, and the Taliban controlled every key poppy-growing field in Helmand. The group extracted an estimated four billion dollars from opium every year. Money that went a long way in one of the world’s poorest regions. Opium profits helped the Taliban buy guns, pay salaries to its army of thirty thousand mercenaries and keep the hiring engine warm.
Despite a crackdown by the US and Afghan forces, new people joined the trade almost every day. For most rural households, the only livelihood alternative to this was to send their sons to join the Afghan security forces, which, in many cases was as good as a death sentence. Far better to have the sons cultivate poppy and pay taxes to the Taliban or the government-linked local powerbrokers. In plain words, there was simply nothing in Afghanistan that produced more jobs than the opium economy.
Wick had seen the devastating effect of the drugs on the Afghan youth. The whole country was either wielding guns or doing lines.
Wick walked down the broken road, taking in the bombed-out skeletons of buildings, the near-deserted roads and the non-existent social life of the town. Beyond the town, there was only barren land as far as the eye could see. It was hard to keep the grief and disenchantment in check. His problem with the people who supported these wars was the extreme violence inflicted on innocent civilians, that was not only physical but also emotional and social. And despite knowing everything, he could do nothing to stop it. This was a war for an illusionary peace that Wick knew would never arrive.
He shook his head and tried to re-focus on the job at hand. His destination was a burnt-down police station just outside town. He hoped to find Akram there. The last time he had seen the man, was a month ago. Wick knew if anyone could nudge him in the right direction it was Akram. If he wasn’t already dead from a drug overdose, that is. He was Wick’s strongest source and without him this would be a different game altogether.
Chapter 6
WICK PREFERRED WALKING on Afghan roads, as Taliban fighters fired indiscriminately at running vehicles they didn’t recognize as their own, and he didn’t want to get shot at without reason. He maintained a steady pace, neither lingering nor hurrying, just right to not raise suspicion. That was the reason it took him forty-five minutes to reach the burned-out police station.
At the iron gate, Wick paused for a moment to gauge his surroundings. His posture was that of a local, someone indifferently looking at the carnage, but his eyes acutely examined the structure for any incongruities. The abandoned police station was a two-story construction with multiple holes for snipers. An IED blast had destroyed the building’s left flank hence the frame was somewhat lopsided to the left. The right flank was still erect but could give away anytime. The walls that had been white once were now charred black, possibly from the fire that had followed the blast.
Wick looked for movement in the building. Listened for any sound. His palms were open, facing the structure. His position was of absolute vulnerability, standing at the gate, alone and unarmed. Anyone pointing a gun at him would have relished such an easy target.
After a pause of two minutes, he walked towards the building, his steps measured and quiet. A fearful posture masked his alert competence. It was imperative to be seen as harmless and frightened in the open.
At the edge of the missing wooden door of the police station, he stopped once more. He bent slightly forward to peer inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell. The building reeked of charred dead bodies. He crossed the threshold and found himself in a mid-size hall. Where once there must have been bustling activity, there was only an eerie silence left. The smell had woken up all his sensory receptors. His eyes were more alert, his demeanor had changed, and his mind worked overtime to find anything out of place.
He searched the two holding cells on the first floor. The steel bars were damaged, the small window opposite the bars was now a big hole because of what looked like a rocket blast. The wall between the two cells was blown away.
He strode towards the room to his left. The wooden plaque above the door frame said that it was a weapons store. Now only an empty shell. Someone had stolen the weapons long back, but the room could still be a good hideout. Wick made a mental note of it, then proceeded towards the stairs. There was nothing else on the first floor worth scrutiny.
What if Akram, the man he was looking for, had left the building. Even worse, what if he was in no state to talk? He would find out soon.
Wick climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building, rubble crunching under his shoes.
This floor had three rooms in relatively good condition. Once, perhaps, they had been used as temporary dwellings for the station lieutenants, but now they lay abandoned.
Wick entered the room closest to the stairs, but two steps in and he knew it was uninhabited.
The second room was locked b
ut a man-sized hole in the wall to the right of the door frame allowed him to check that the room was vacant.
The last room of the floor was in a habitable condition. The door was missing but the stone flooring was clear of the wreckage. Inside, a shoulder-high brick divider separated the room into two.
Wick saw a foot sticking out of a cramped spot between the brick divider and the wall. There was someone in the room.
“Akram, is it you?” Wick uttered in the friendliest tone he could manage. “It’s me, Omar, your friend.” He quickly introduced himself with the alias Akram knew him by, speaking slowly and softly so as not to scare the man into doing anything nasty.
