by Eric Meyer
“How the hell will he do that?”
“The riots in Egypt are about to get worse. He’ll offer Sadat as the man who can calm everything down. “
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not when they’re the ones who created the riots to stir things up. If it works, Sadat seizes power, and Mukhtar gets his guns. We think it could work. Sadat and Mukhtar are powerful, persuasive men with many followers. Listen, Schaeffer, it's something you've done before, and done very well. I doubt there's anyone with a better track record at killing than you.”
“Nice of you to say so.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “I gather you’re out of work right now, so this would be a way back in for you, a kind of rehabilitation.”
“Is that what the CIA calls assassination these days? Rehabilitation?”
He still wouldn’t take the bait. He was good. I gave him that.
“You'll find we pay very well, enough to keep you in booze and pay the bills for many years to come.
So he knew about my drinking habits, as well as my military service and the private contracts afterward. In short, he knew everything. I shook my head.
"No way! I told them after Herat that was the end. If you think I’m going back, or going to Egypt to hunt down and kill a man, you’re wrong. It isn’t going to happen.”
He stared for a few moments. "I'd like you to think on it, Schaeffer. I'll come back tomorrow and see if you've changed your mind."
"Don't waste your time."
He shrugged. "It's no problem. I'll be in the area for a few days. There's plenty of time for you to come around."
"It won't happen."
"Then I guess you're in for a rough ride. The MPs are holding you on a murder rap, and I understand Olsen was a good buddy of Sergeant Wilson. He's really cut up. I doubt he'll settle for anything less than a life sentence without parole."
"The problem is, I didn't do it."
He looked around the bare concrete walls and the steel bars. "I reckon the military cops are convinced they have their man. I doubt your denials will make any difference. When it comes to the trial, they'll make one hundred percent sure the evidence is there to convict you."
"Except it’s all bullshit."
He gave me a tired smile. "I've heard they all say that. Think about it. I'll see you in the morning."
He got to his feet and called for the guard. I had a sudden thought.
"You didn't tell me your name."
"No, I didn't."
I had a lot more than his offer to think about that night. They left me all day and most of the evening with nothing to eat or drink. Then they came just before midnight, the same four men, led by Sergeant Wilson. Once again, the beating started, and this time, there was no spook to call them off.
Chapter Two
Fort Drum, New York State
The beating started again, and this time, there was no spook to call them off. It lasted for a full half-hour, and despite my efforts to protect myself, these men were experts. They mainly use their boots and were careful to beat me on those parts of the body that wouldn't show when I was fully dressed. Wilson spent most time on the kidneys, repeatedly using his heavy boots to smash into them and cause the maximum agony. The pain I could deal with, but after they've left and I was able to pick myself up from the floor, I was spitting blood from internal injuries. I knew I couldn't take much more of this; sooner or later they go too far. It wasn't impossible for them to arrange my ‘suicide’, leaving me hanging in the cell after being unable to reconcile my killing of Brad Olsen. The following morning the spook returned.
He walked into the cell carrying an impressive looking bundle of files, and they locked the door behind him. He sat down, put the paperwork on my bunk, and gave me a friendly enough nod.
"I trust you had a comfortable night?"
"Go fuck yourself," I muttered at him.
A brief look of surprise crossed his face. “I'd advise you to think again, Schaeffer. I understand they’re starting to uncover evidence that links you to the murder of Brad Olsen.”
“It’s a crock of shit, and you know it.”
He shrugged. We both understood, and it made no difference. I glared at him for a few moments. We both knew what was going down. He'd lined up Brad for the operation as he was still on contract to the military. When he was murdered, and his buddy from the old days turned up, it was a golden opportunity. He’d have read through my file and knew everything he needed to know. Including the reason I'd stopped working for the military, and my subsequent marriage to the bottle. So all he needed was to push the right buttons. The threat of life imprisonment for the murder of a good friend was perfect, combined with the application of a few facts his line of thinking didn't answer, the name of Brad Olsen’s killer, and why he was killed.
I'd stopped killing on command. He knew that too, but he was pushing me to go back, and the force was irresistible. If I was convicted of Brad's murder, the real killer would go free, and he knew that was unacceptable to me. In that moment, I decided to pay the price.
We stared at each other in silence for several minutes, both knowing I'd been backed into a corner and had no choice. I had to bow to the inevitable.
"Tell me about the deal, and I want to know how Brad’s murder can be resolved."
He almost managed to prevent a look of triumph from crossing his face. "It's straightforward enough. I'll make sure the cops don't press any charges on the murder rap.…"
"So you know I didn't kill him."
He inclined his head. "I always doubted it. Besides, you were good friends once. But it makes no difference, if the MPs decide you're their man, it's difficult to get them to think otherwise; difficult, but not impossible. You help us, and I've no doubt I could persuade them to work real hard to find the real killer."
I ignored the bullshit about how difficult it was. CIA had conducted operations to remove entire governments in the past. Setting aside a false charge of murder would be child's play for them. But it would be start, getting the military cops to do a proper investigation. The next problem was what he was asking me to do. Difficult didn’t cover it; impossible came close.
"It won't be easy, hunting this guy. I'll need help; a fireteam like before."
"I realize that. Unfortunately, the other surviving members of your unit are out of the picture." He looked at the papers in front of him. "Manuel Salazar, he's working as a VIP bodyguard, and my understanding is he lives the high life. Plenty of money, a sports car to drive, and his client spends his time in nice places, restaurants, and nightclubs, that kind of thing. It’s a good gig. He won't want to change it. And you know Niall Quinn became a priest. So you'll have to find new people. In addition, the operation will depend on interpreting existing intelligence, so you'll need an analyst in your team. One was already assigned to work with Olsen, so she's on the spot, so to speak."
I felt a churning in my guts. No, it couldn't be. No!
"Who is it?"
He pasted on a smile that was as fake as a bill of sale for the Statue of Liberty.
"Someone you already know. She worked in Afghanistan, and did liaison…"
"Winter Moss."
"Exactly. You're very lucky she's been assigned to this operation. She's one of the best, and…"
"I won't work with her, so forget it. You’ll have to assign someone else. It's not negotiable."
Just hearing the name Winter Moss was enough to send my mind spinning back to Afghanistan, to the time I last saw the treacherous bitch. She was as trustworthy as a rattlesnake standing for public office. She’d proved herself a smooth operator, at least, to those who didn’t know her well. They didn’t know quite how low she could sink.
* * *
Six months before - Kabul, Afghanistan
We were about to embark on a mission, locate and destroy, at a time when we’d picked up something of a reputation. So much so, they nicknamed us the ‘Hunter Killers’ because of our successes. I wo
uld sooner ‘private contractors’. I preferred the shadows. She walked into the briefing room, and the CIA Head of Station introduced her.
"Gentlemen, I’ve assigned Winter Moss to assist you with this operation. She'll be able to collate and analyze recent intel, and to give you some starting points about where you can find the target."
She was as cool and elegant as ever, wearing a combination of military and civilian clothes, all artfully chosen to give an appearance that owed more to fashion than war. She could have worn a sack, and it wouldn't have made much difference. She was a doll, one of those girls with huge, dark, liquid eyes that melt the heart of any man who catches sight of her. She was of medium height, about five feet five inches, and very slim, like a cross between a fashion model and a marathon runner. A short, businesslike hairstyle that probably cost several hundred dollars, and a little make up carefully applied, enhanced an almost perfect face. Sculpted eyebrows to frame those big eyes, and a bow shaped mouth that was made for kissing. She was wasted as an analyst. She was more the Mata Hari type, the girl who could ensnare an enemy and persuade him to pour out everything to her, including top-secret information.
She began her presentation in her usual precise way, for she was a total professional. Facts and figures rolled out of her beautiful mouth, together with a set of detailed analyses, based on phone taps, signals intercepts, and tip-offs from informers. The briefing broke up, and I left in a hurry. I had a meeting arranged with a contact that had previously provided me with useful information. We were to meet in a bar in downtown Kabul, and as I sat sipping on a cold beer, I was joined by a girl so glamorous she had to be a hooker; high heels, short dress that barely covered her ass, and make up applied with a trowel. Heads turned, and I felt the envious glances from some of the men. They were asking themselves how come I managed to get hold of such a gorgeous girl, hooker or not.
I smiled to myself, for appearances can be deceptive. His name was Isra Farhi, his, not hers. Isra was that rare specimen in Islamic countries, a cross-dresser. Fortunately, he was very good at it, and as far as I knew, he'd never been uncovered. The penalty for a guy dressing as a girl in a place like Afghanistan was not pleasant. Probably he'd be buried up to his neck and stoned to death. They were capable of inventing an even worse death.
"What have you got for me, Isra?"
The girl smiled, with batted eyelids. "How about the name of a local Al Qaeda operative who is planning an attack inside the Green Zone?"
"When?"
He grinned. "How about later tonight? My information is he’s holed up in an apartment just outside the city center. Their plan is to go in just before dawn when they figure the sentries will be tired and sleepy. They have a suicide bomber arranged, and he'll drive a motor scooter fitted with explosives up to the barrier and then detonate. As soon as the sentries are down, Hamid and his men will charge in and try to make it to the American Embassy."
I was astonished. The plan was so simple, yet audacious enough to succeed.
"Can you lead me to this place?"
"We can go now, honey."
I winced but stood up to leave the bar. Isra slipped out behind me and put his hand on my arm. To all appearances, I was just a guy taking a stroll with his pretty girlfriend. I put on my dark glasses, praying that no one I knew would see me. We had only walked a hundred yards when we had an encounter.
"Schaeffer, I was hoping to have a chance to talk with you.” She looked surprised, “This is your girlfriend?"
I shook my head. Violently. "No, she's not, just an acquaintance. Isra, this is Winter Moss."
They gave each other a brief smile and the tiniest of handshakes.
Before she could say anything, I explained to Winter what was going down. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at Isra. "Are you sure? I mean totally positive?"
The ‘girl’ on my arm nodded eagerly. "There's no doubt. It's going down tonight."
I was thinking to myself that Isra was damned good, totally convincing. There was nothing shameful or embarrassing about him accompanying me as a female companion. Winter looked slightly uncomfortable, but that was too bad. At the time, she saw another pretty girl. Competition, and nothing is more certain to arouse female wrath.
Right then, the insurgents hit us. We were strolling along the narrow street, three abreast. Winter had linked arms the other side of me. We occasionally had to bunch in to avoid the motor scooters rushing by, and then something else roared past us. Two shots, missing Isra by inches. I shoved my companions to the ground, and in a simultaneous movement snatched out my pistol, the Ruger .45 I always carried when I was off duty. It was no surprise that Winter reached into her purse and whipped out a Mini Glock, the lightweight 9mm automatic that makes the perfect concealed weapon.
Keeping flat and trying to avoid the fusillade of shots scorching the air over our heads, I sighted on the first shooter. Not surprisingly, a black turbaned Afghan, tall, thin and bearded, and with an AK-47 pointed right at us. His companion was sitting astride a motor scooter, and he'd pulled out a heavy automatic and was taking aim. I emptied the clip at the AK-47 shooter and shouted at Winter to hit the other man. At least two of my shots hit the target, and the Afghan went down, but he wasn't finished. Despite the fact he was bleeding badly, he struggled to bring his weapon back to aim. I rammed in a new clip, ready to finish him, but two more insurgents came rushing around the corner. Both of them were armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles.
"Get into cover, Isra, run!"
To my amazement, he took the time to slip off his high-heeled shoes before he climbed to his feet and walked into the shelter of a nearby carpet store. But he was safe, out of the line of fire. Not so Winter Moss, who'd decided to mount a one-woman offensive. She understood the short range of her weapon, and after her first shots went wild, she charged. One woman, armed with a popgun, attacking three shooters armed with automatic rifles and a fourth man with a handgun. I wasn't sure if she was very brave or she had a death wish, not that it mattered at the time. I'm a pretty good shot with the old Ruger, and there was only one thing I could do. I charged with her.
People were scattering, old men, women in veiled robes, and children, some grabbing at their possessions as they ran. It saved their lives, for Islamic fighters have never had any qualms about shooting down innocent people to reach their targets. But it meant the chaotic crowds in the street had disappeared, and now there was nothing between the armed insurgents and us. They had a clear field of fire, but so did we.
I had one more clip in my coat, so I couldn't throw ammunition away, but I emptied that second clip, just to spoil their aim. Eight rounds, that was enough to make them hesitate for a second, whether to return fire or shoot back. The hesitation was enough for us to close in on them, and the gap had closed to inside ten yards.
Now it was Winter's turn, and two of her 9mm rounds smacked into one of the AK-47 shooters, knocking him to the ground. By now, I'd slap in my third and last clip, and I opened fire. I managed to wing another of them, and it was enough to make him drop his weapon. Five yards. I fired again, and the man I'd winded with my first shots slumped back down, and this time he didn't get back up. Winter finished off the wounded shooter, and now we were only facing the scooter man, who was still clutching his pistol, a Russian made Makarov 9mm. He wasn't very old, maybe about twenty, and as he watched death coming nearer, I could see his hand shaking. It was a debate whether to finish him off or bring him in for questioning, for there was no doubt he was on the verge of surrender.
She ended any debate by running close to him, pointing the pistol at his head, and putting three shots into his brain. The expression on his face as he went down was of sheer astonishment. Maybe he thought Westerners didn't play by the rules. But it made no difference; she’d done the deed. I checked each of them and found that one of the shooters was still alive.
"Winter, this one might make it. It'd be worth taking him back for…"
The single shot gave her answer. She sto
od over him with the pistol still pointed at his head. She was so close I could smell her perfume. It was mildly erotic, and I cautioned myself to put any of those thoughts out of my head. Whatever I'd thought about this CIA analyst when she appeared at the briefing, there were two new facts to add to my knowledge. First, she was insanely brave. And second, she was a ruthless killer.
We walked back to the store where we'd left Isra. He stepped out into the street when he saw us coming and gave us a smile. It was as well he couldn't see in the mirror. His expensive wig was askew, and now his face wasn't framed by the stylish hairdo. His feminine guise had slipped only a little, and most people wouldn't have noticed, but Winter Moss wasn't most people. She was a clever and experienced CIA analyst, whose job involved interpreting tiny pieces of data to form a solid conclusion. And I could see from her look of surprise she'd come to that conclusion, and knew Isra was a fake.
The Afghan cops can be tedious when people get killed in their streets after a gun battle, so we took off. Our destination, the hideout of the Al Qaeda operative was nearby, so Isra walked us past it. When we were safely around the next corner, Winter took out her cell and spoke to the Head of Station in the Embassy.
We found another bar where we could enjoy a few stiff drinks while we waited. It wasn't long. Barely fifteen minutes had elapsed when two Little Birds out of Bagram roared overhead with Delta Force operatives perched on the skids. They flared for a landing over the suspect building, and inside a few seconds had entered and started shooting up the terrorists. It was short. A couple of them returned fire, and the distinctive sound of the AK-47s easily identified next to the chatter of the 9mm submachine guns used by the Special Forces. At one stage, there were a couple of explosions, grenades, not C4, and after that everything went quiet.
When the helos landed, the street had suddenly become deserted. These people were no strangers to battles between insurgents and the military. The only sound had been the rattle of semi-automatic weapons, the thunder of the aero engines, and the crack of the grenades. After they'd gone, people poured out of their hiding places, and once more, normal life resumed.
