by JC Ryan
It didn’t matter. He didn’t anticipate any HALO or other parachute jumps now. And if there was ever an occasion when one would be required, he’d find a way to get the equipment to do it, including an oxygen mask for Digger.
Rex eventually arrived at the baggage claim, where Digger spotted him first and let out a yip, which attracted Rex’s attention. Immediately followed by a couple of higher yips from two chihuahuas in much smaller crates chiming in. Rex looked in the direction of the noise and made eye contact with Digger. The spike of relief and pleasure he felt when he saw Digger was safe and sound was new to him but not entirely surprising.
“Hey, boy! I’ll have you out of jail in just a few minutes,” he called.
Digger relaxed his muzzle and let his tongue loll out.
Rex located his duffle bag quickly and secured a cart to carry everything again. Digger would have to stay in the crate until they picked up the rental vehicle Rex had pre-ordered, a roomy SUV like the American Ford Explorer, with plenty of cargo space. Rex didn’t know whether he’d need the four-wheel drive, or whether he’d need all that room, for that matter. But he suspected he’d need to get out of the country without parading Rehka through an international airport. The SUV was perfect for a border crossing in a remote area, if that became necessary.
However, those were things he’d worry about later, he first had to find her.
The minor Saudi prince that Kabir Patel had sold Rehka’s bond to lived in Dammam, a lovely city on the Persian Gulf, about an hour by air from Riyadh. Rex could have flown directly there, but he didn’t want to use the ID he’d flown in with while he searched for the Saudi. He’d switch back to the ID he’d been using in India instead. It was as good a cover as any, and if he ran into trouble, he’d still have the new one to help him get out of the country. So, no flights. He’d do the four-hour drive instead.
Pushing his luggage cart through the nearly-empty airport, he wondered where all the travelers were. Most of the nicer restaurants were closed, too, and he was hungry and so was Digger. He shrugged. They wouldn’t let him bring the cart in with Digger, anyway. Best to grab something from one of the convenience shops in the airport. Leaving the cart outside the wide opening that served as an entrance to the next one he saw, he bought a road map in case his cell phone couldn’t find a signal in the wide-open desert, several bottles of water, and two pre-made sandwiches.
Rex found the car rental counter and handed over his ID for the clerk to match up with his reservation.
“Everything is in order, sir. You may take the shuttle to our lot. Your vehicle is waiting there.”
Rex thanked the man, accepted the return of his ID and a receipt, and pushed his cart out the door, where a shuttle waited. By the time they reached the rental car lot and he took delivery of his vehicle, his stomach was growling loudly enough he thought others might be able to hear it. But he waited to eat. Digger needed a run, so he’d eat in a park, if he could find one.
Once inside the vehicle he used his Swiss Army knife, which he had in his luggage, to quickly remove the inside cover of the side panel of the driver’s door and hid his second ID, some cash, and the Sig Sauer P226.
A quick search on his cell phone revealed there was a national park half an hour north, and Rex could see a green space even closer, though it wasn’t identified on the map. He decided to head in that direction and stop where the green space was to see if it was a park. If not, Digger would have to wait another twenty minutes.
Ten minutes later, Rex discovered the nature of the map’s green space. It was a racetrack. But he could see trees, and beyond them a grassy field with a fountain. It would do. Rex turned in, found a parking space, and put Digger on his leash.
“Sorry again, boy, but we don’t want to fall afoul of any laws. This country has a history of not approving of dogs or their owners.”
At the last minute, he decided to take the food and water as well. The trees he’d seen shaded a small brick courtyard with tables, clearly meant for picnic lunches.
The parking lot was also strangely devoid of other vehicles. Rex assumed there were no races today and couldn’t help but think about the contrasts between wealthy Saudi Arabia and destitute Afghanistan. It was definitely two different worlds linked by a single religion. Saudi Arabia was said to be the birthplace of Islam. The two holiest Islamic shrines were located in Mecca and Medina. Even the monarch’s formal title — the King of Saudi Arabia, Prime Minister, head of the House of Saud and The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, made reference to the important shrines.
But the main difference between the countries was the rich oil deposits under the desert sands of Saudi Arabia.
The world coveted that oil and the kingdom had profited. Saudis’ average annual per capita income was about twenty-seven times more than that of Afghanis. Yet, the Saudi’s paid no taxes, as opposed to Afghanistan’s twenty percent top tax rate. In response to their lot, Afghanis protesting it risked death at the hands of their Taliban-influenced government. King Abdallah on the other hand, had in March of 2011 announced a series of benefits to Saudi citizens, including funds for affordable housing, salary increases, and unemployment entitlements.
While Afghanistan wallowed in ancient social norms and utter poverty, Saudi Arabia was taking steps to enter the modern era, even in women’s rights. Much could be said about the reforms, some said it was too little too late, some said it was a step in the right direction and must be encouraged. Whichever way one looked at it, it meant some improvement in the quality of life for the poor in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Of course, the improvements didn’t extend to the personal lives of the ultra-wealthy, especially considering most of that class were the royal family. For them, life continued as usual — luxurious and abundant.
Rex knew with certainty that there were still many reprehensible practices that weren’t widely advertised. The practice of putting toddlers on racing camels, for example, where they would be killed if they fell off their perches. It happened. The practice of starving and abusing the boys as they grew bigger, so they’d have longer utility for racing.
That thought certainly soured his enjoyment of the beautiful gardens surrounding the race track, though this one was for horses, not camels.
And of course, there was the practice of enslaving women, not only their legitimate wives, but also the ‘pleasure wives’ they were entitled to and other women who didn’t even hold that dubious distinction, all hidden behind harem walls, wealth, and tradition. The circumstances he was expecting he would find Rehka Gyan in.
Rex let Digger off the leash, and the dog raced for a nearby shrub, pruned in the shape of a child’s toy top. Rex followed at a more leisurely pace, the plastic bag for pooh collection stuffed in his left pocket.
Once Digger’s relics were taken care of, Rex said, “Chow?”
Digger grinned, turned and raced Rex back to the table where he’d left the sandwiches. Rex ran in spite of the heat, assuming correctly that if he didn’t get there before Digger finished the first sandwich, he’d no hope of having even one bite of the second one. Naturally, Digger was faster. But Rex arrived in time to save his sandwich, anyway. He snatched it from the table just in time and took a big bite, barely waiting to tear the wrapping off it first.
Rex was finishing the sandwich when a Saudi in uniform approached him. The man was shorter than the average Saudi, maybe five-foot-six, Rex guessed. Like many shorter-than-average men in any country, he made up for his lack of stature with an arrogant swagger. He wore wraparound mirrored sunglasses, a belt with a revolver in a holster studded with extra rounds, a tan uniform with three green stripes of his rank on his sleeves, and a black beret with a gold patch matching his collar studs.
Rex wouldn’t have called him trim, but aside from a slight bulge that strained the two buttons above his belt, he looked fit enough.
Between the beret and the oversized sunglasses, Rex couldn’t see a frown, but the man’s mouth was turned down at the corners
between a mustache and neatly-trimmed goatee. He certainly wasn’t smiling. Rex didn’t need to identify the black patch above the rank stripes on his left shoulder or the name written on the badge above his right pocket to know who or what he was.
Uh-oh. Cop. And he’s not happy about something.
He put his sandwich down and started to reach for Digger’s papers, when the officer told him to raise his hands. Confused, Rex complied. He started to explain he was only reaching for the dog’s papers.
“Silence! You are under arrest for failing to observe Ramadan. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The officer wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t a joke.
Ramadan! That’s why all the restaurants at the airport were closed. Shit, how could I forget about that?
Ramadan — one of the Five Pillars of Islam. A period lasting twenty-nine to thirty days, depending on the visual sightings of the crescent moon, during the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. The month in which, it is believed, Allah revealed the Quran to the Prophet Muhammad. A time during which all Muslims and anyone in a Muslim country were supposed to fast — not eat any food between dawn and sunset. The only people excepted were those who were travelling, elderly, ill, chronically ill, diabetic, pregnant, breastfeeding, or menstruating.
Rex had arrived, so he couldn’t claim he was travelling. He wouldn’t get away with either the age or the illness excuse. And he was not dressed to even try to convince anyone that he might be pregnant, breastfeeding, or menstruating. Ignorance was his only remaining defense, but ignorance of the law, he was given to understand since a very young age, was no excuse.
He knew he was going to be arrested. The only unknown was the punishment. “Digger, run! Hide!” he exclaimed.
Digger took off.
That kicked the officer into action and he tackled Rex to the ground.
Rex knew he shouldn’t resist, so he let the officer take him down, but he turned his head toward Digger as he was going down. Digger had stopped, no doubt because he didn’t know whether to obey the command or come back and help.
“Go!” Rex shouted.
Digger turned and ran for the nearest hedge. Rex approved. It was the only cover he’d seen where Digger might evade capture. It was lucky the dog was smart – he’d be on his own while Rex sorted things out.
Rex lay passively on the ground while the officer cuffed his hands behind his back and told him to remain on the ground. For a few minutes, Rex was alone as the officer made a cursory search for Digger. But evidently Digger had understood the situation. The officer came back without him.
He tugged Rex to his feet and started marching him toward a building nearby. Just his luck, Rex had broken the Ramadan laws in a deserted place patrolled by police.
“What did I do wrong?” he asked the officer in Arabic.
“You were eating before sundown.”
“But I’m not Muslim. I didn’t know the laws applied to me,” Rex argued.
“That does not matter. In public, everyone, Muslim and visitor alike, must obey the laws. And when you’re in this country you’re supposed to know what the laws are.”
Rex assumed he’d have to pay a fine and that would be the end of it. He would find out later just how wrong he was.
Chapter Twelve
AFTER JOHN BRANDT had left them, Josh Farley and Marissa Bisset talked at the table until the server came to ask them if they were finished. He needed the table. They ordered dessert and talked on. Both knew that John Brandt, the Old Man, wouldn’t have put them together if he’d thought either could get the job done alone. They each knew the other was competent at the types of missions Brandt’s outfit, CRC, took on. But they didn’t know each other’s specialties, languages, or experience. Before they could work well together, they’d need to know those things as if they’d been working as a team for years.
It took a few hours. Josh was a trained assassin like Rex Dalton, well versed in all aspects of spy craft and a weapons and martial arts expert. He spoke two languages besides English – Spanish and Italian. He’d met Rex Dalton, but they had never done a mission together. By the time he’d joined CRC, Rex was already a legend, a lone agent, working without a team and for the most part without backup or logistics support of any kind.
Marissa was an expert hacker and spy and could handle herself in a fight, but she hadn’t ever been involved in a military-style mission. She was the best female agent Brandt had. She’d been Carson’s downfall. She also spoke two languages besides English, and one was Arabic. She’d be an asset on this mission for that reason alone. Her other language was French, which she’d spoken along with English since she was a few months old thanks to her French father.
Marissa was about ten years older than Josh, but one would have to have seen her birth certificate to know that. The choices for their joint legend had been Josh’s sister, girlfriend or wife. After a bit of discussion about what circumstances they might encounter, they decided on girlfriend or wife. Josh was hesitant to bring it up, but Marissa casually mentioned that in some countries they’d want to be domiciled in the same hotel rooms for safety. That meant she’d pose as his wife, especially in Muslim countries.
Josh wasn’t naïve. He knew she wasn’t flirting. At the same time, he wouldn’t have objected if she had. The only problem he had was whether anyone would believe an average-looking guy like him could have bagged a beautiful creature like Marissa as his wife. He kept his thoughts to himself.
By the time they finished their dessert and then coffee with a cheese platter the long-suffering server brought them afterward, they had the rudiments of a plan. That was all they could do. What happened after they got to Afghanistan would depend on what they could find, or not, about Rex there. Maybe they’d find his remains. Even though Brandt didn’t think so, they had to start there and eliminate or confirm it.
Like Brandt, though, Josh thought it was entirely plausible that Rex could have escaped the ambush and left the country. Rex’s legend in CRC was not based on rumors it was based on facts. Marissa said she’d take his word for it. Brandt had given them carte blanche. They were to keep searching until they found Rex or conclusive proof of his death. Privately, Josh thought it might be the work of years. He himself knew how to disappear and he was good at it, that was one of the skills they were taught at CRC, but he knew Rex was even better.
They’d take a week to develop their legend, get their gear together, and wait for Brandt’s logistics team to get them the identity papers they’d need to move freely in Afghanistan and some of the neighboring countries such as Pakistan, India and China. After that, they’d fly commercial to Kabul under the guise of journalists. It wasn’t a truly safe legend, but it was the only one that fit a husband and wife team asking questions about a paramilitary outfit called Phoenix Unlimited. With luck, they’d convince the informants they found that their interest was in persuading the West that those groups had a just cause. If they were seen as sympathetic, maybe they wouldn’t lose their heads.
They arrived in Kabul on the same day that Rex flew from Mumbai to Riyadh.
***
MORE THAN A month had passed since the ambush that had purportedly killed Rex and the bulk of the Phoenix Unlimited employees, including the CEO, Frank Millard. In the meanwhile, Brandt had discovered the link between the two men, Frank and Rex, who’d been in the same unit in Marine boot camp. He couldn’t find any evidence that they’d had any contact since. That didn’t mean they hadn’t, just that the evidence hadn’t survived. But in Rex’s first report he’d mentioned that he knew Millard to be a good man and a good soldier, so he was going to use the serendipity of Millard’s outfit being present in Kabul to use them as his logistics team. Brandt had given no objection.
Marissa dressed up in full garb, full-face hijab and all, accompanied her ‘husband’ to the address they had. It was her first visit to Afghanistan. She had been to Saudi Arabia and a few other Muslim countries before and she hated their treatment of women
and the edict about the clothes they had to wear in public. But she was not going to let her peeves get in the way of the mission.
She and Josh already knew that Phoenix Unlimited had disbanded and, as expected, the compound was deserted. Not a shred of evidence remained to testify to the presence of a multinational team of paramilitary agents ever having been there.
“What’s next?” Marissa asked.
“Landlord?” Josh answered.
“Good idea.”
However, there also wasn’t a shred of evidence to tell them to whom the property belonged. They knew because they’d gone over it with the thoroughness of forensic investigators. Finding nothing, they were forced to ask at neighboring businesses and homes, jumbled together as if the city had never heard of city planning. Maybe it hadn’t. Neither of Brandt’s operatives knew whether city planning had been a thing thirty-five-hundred years ago, when it was founded.
Their search took them several blocks away from the compound before they found the butcher shop where Millard’s cook had bought their meats. There, they heard from the proprietor that none of the Phoenix people had remained after a tragedy killed most of them.
“Yeah, well, tell us something we don’t know,” Josh mumbled just loud enough so that Marissa could hear.
They already had names and contact information for the survivors, but they’d hoped to find at least one remaining who wasn’t on the list. It was a depressingly short list, and the handful of agents had scattered to the four winds. Josh speculated they may even have joined another paramilitary group and not stayed where their last known addresses were. What they now knew was that the story of the explosion and the number of casualties had not been exaggerated. But the reason for the explosion had been covered up.
