by Jack Arbor
With his rifle in one hand, Sammi ran to the driver’s side of Spartak’s truck and wrenched the door open. He grabbed Spartak by the shirt collar and yanked him from the vehicle and jammed the M16’s muzzle into his chest.
They left Spartak facedown on the sandy floor of the tent, his ankles and wrists secured behind him by duct tape—the only thing available—while Sammi searched the other tents and Max tended to Spencer. Using a packet of smelling salts he found among the major’s possessions, Max brought Spencer around. The former CIA black-ops agent blinked his eyes open and shook his head before permitting himself to be led to a chair.
“Guess we’re even now,” Spencer mumbled, the characteristic brightness in his eyes slowly returning.
Max placed Spartak’s pistol in Spencer’s hand. “Not even close, my friend. Shoot him if he even blinks wrong.”
It took a few minutes for Max to find his shirt along with his rifle, pistol, combat knife, pack, and other gear in a corner of the tent. After shrugging into the T-shirt, his ribs protesting, he stuck his phone in a pocket and shoved his knife into his waistband. He rummaged in his pack and grabbed a plastic baggie of heavy-duty painkillers, dropped two in his mouth, and swallowed them dry.
Sammi stuck his head into the tent. “Clear. No one else around. Tents are empty. Six dead guys.”
Max squatted next to Spartak’s prone body. “Search the vehicles and bring me a tool kit.” Where was Dedov? Waiting out in the desert somewhere or halfway to Ankara? “Stay vigilant. Dedov might still be around.”
“Aye, captain.” Sammi ducked back out into the morning sunshine.
With Spencer’s help, Max heaved Spartak into a chair, where he used more of the duct tape to secure his captive. The major’s face was swollen and puffy, and the butterfly bandage hung loose. Sand and grit clung to blood-covered abrasions on his cheek and neck.
Max crossed his arms and studied his prisoner. Spartak was the number five man on what was known in intelligence circles as the consortium, a shadowy group of twelve men who controlled the oil and natural gas production of the Russian Federation and much of the black market in the former Eastern Bloc countries. Spartak, known as a fearsome warrior and a tough-as-nails special operations commando, glared at Max. Can’t let my guard down.
He strolled behind his prisoner, whose arms flexed and moved to loosen the tape around his wrists. “Don’t bother, Spartak. You so much as flinch and my friend there will shoot you full of holes.”
The captive kept flexing his arms.
“Fine. Your funeral.” Max walked around to look Spartak in the eye. “Back when I was with the KGB, one of the captains in the Second Directorate led a long and detailed study of interrogation and torture techniques. It took him four years, and when it was done they named it the Chernov report, after the guy who wrote it. Are you familiar with it?”
Spartak scowled.
Max dug in his pocket and fingered the bag of pills. “I’m not surprised. The report was buried. Probably didn’t make it to the Spetsnaz. Chernov’s assertions were so controversial that the KGB didn’t want its conclusions made known to the KGB general population.”
The tent door banged open as Sammi entered carrying a large roll of oil-stained canvas along with a leather shoulder bag. He tossed the canvas roll at Max, who caught it and dropped it onto the ground before unrolling it on the sand to display a row of tarnished and grime-caked tools.
“You know what the summary of the report was, Spartak?”
Sammi dropped the leather shoulder bag at Spencer’s feet and nudged Spartak’s chin with the barrel of his rifle. “The man is speaking to you, ya kalb.”
Spartak’s eyes flicked to the leather bag.
Max stooped and selected a tool from the canvas roll on the ground. “Right. How could you know? Like I said, the report was buried.”
He stepped in front of Spartak, his arms crossed, the tool cupped in his hand, hidden. “The report looked at dozens of interrogation and torture techniques, including the Reid technique, water boarding, pain, solitary, and all kinds of drugs. The normal stuff. He reviewed thousands of cases across all thirteen of the Soviet states. You know what he found was the single most effective method of gaining information?”
The major drew back and spat a wad of blood-laced phlegm at Max, who shifted fast enough so the mucus struck his arm.
With a flash of a dirty red thawb, Sammi crushed the butt of his rifle into the major’s jaw, pitching the former soldier onto his side, where he landed with a thud.
Max helped Sammi yank Spartak upright. “Check the tape. I think he’s working the old stretch-the-duct-tape trick.”
While Sammi wound a few more strands of tape around Spartak’s wrists, Max showed his prisoner the screwdriver. To his credit, Spartak’s expression remained steady.
By now, the hydrocodone had taken the edge off the pain in Max’s rib cage. “As I was saying. Do you know what Chernov found to be the most effective technique for obtaining information from captives?”
Fresh blood flowed from the wound on Spartak’s temple, but the fire in his eyes remained.
Max hurled the screwdriver into the sand, where it landed pointed end down, handle sticking up. “Rapport.”
This time, Spartak’s eyes flickered.
“That’s right. We were all surprised too. Put the subject into a comfortable setting. Use respect and relationship-building techniques to build empathy. Pretend to be a friend. Make them think there’s a chance. Allow them to regain their self-respect. The report said that physical or psychological torture is ineffective because the subject will say anything to make the pain stop. Makes the results unreliable.”
Max withdrew the tactical knife from his waistband. Its silver edge caught the sun shining into the open side of the tent. The hilt was covered in well-worn leather, and a thong loop was attached to the end of the handle. Spartak’s eyes tracked the knife as Max spun it in his hand. “You can imagine why the KGB leadership wanted that report buried.”
“Too humane.” Spartak choked on the words.
In a flash, Max used all his weight to drive the knife deep into Spartak’s thigh.
The major screamed and heaved against his bindings as his wide-open eyes stared at the knife hilt sticking from his leg. A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow while his screams died away.
Max grabbed Spartak’s chin and held him steady. “Wrong. Too slow.” Max let go of his captive’s chin and pushed gently on the knife hilt, eliciting another round of screams. “What do you think?”
Spartak growled through clenched teeth. “Go fuck yourself, Asimov.”
As Max yanked the knife from Spartak’s thigh, the colonel ground his teeth against the pain. Max wiped the blade on his captive’s shoulder. “Let’s begin with an easy one. Why are you selling weapons to Victor Dedov?”
Spartak stayed silent.
Spencer’s feeble voice sounded behind him. “Take a look at this.”
The leather bag was open at Spencer’s feet, its contents spread on the sand. Stacks of US one hundred dollar bills lay next to a semiautomatic pistol, a tactical knife, a bottle of pills, and a sheaf of papers bound with a binder clip. The papers were dog-eared and covered with scribbles in blue and red ink.
Max picked up the bundle of papers and thumbed through a long list of weapons, colorful brochures, and schematics for various weapons systems along with bills of lading and invoices. A set of ledger pages with a list of entries written in Cyrillic followed by numbers was at the back of the stack. “What d’ya got here?”
Spartak scrunched up his face. “Fuck off.”
Spencer’s voice again. “Something else. Hidden in an inside pocket.”
Spencer tossed him a black box-shaped device made from metal about the size of a cigarette pack, except thinner. Max flipped it over. The back was smooth with no markings. Along one narrow side was a USB port. Another side held a button set flush into the box’s side. When he pushed the button, the front o
f the device lit to display a number pad and a field asking for a PIN. He held it up.
Spartak’s face went slack. “Where’d you get that?”
“It was in the case.”
Spartak’s voice raised an octave. “Impossible.”
Max grinned. “Not yours?”
His captive’s face hardened.
Max waved it in the air. “What is it?”
Spartak shrugged. “Never seen it before.”
“What’s the pin?”
Scowling, the major struggled against the tape binding his wrists. “We’re both being set up, Asimov. I tell you I’ve never seen that thing before. Someone planted it in my bag.”
“Explain.”
Spartak stared at a point on the far side of the tent.
Max twirled the knife until it rested in his hand in a reverse grip, with the blade close to his little finger. “We can do this a couple of ways. We can stuff you in the Humvee and take you to one of Sammi’s safe houses in Mosul where we can spend a few weeks building rapport. Or we can stay here while I use the old method.”
As he said the word method, Max drove the knife into Spartak’s left thigh and braced for the howls of pain.
The major sat frozen, his head still and his jaw clenched, while his eyes roamed the ceiling of the tent before his body went slack and his head slumped, his chin falling to his chest.
Max shook Spartak’s shoulder. “What the hell?”
Spencer walked over, put his fingers on the man’s neck, and shook his head.
“He’s dead.”
Five
Aras Valley in Turkey Near the Armenian Border
“His heart gave out. The sudden shock was too much.”
After cutting the major’s hands free, Spencer grabbed a wrist and held it before letting it flop back to his lap. “Nothing. No pulse.” He snatched the pill bottle and dumped the contents in his hand. “Beta blockers. Used to treat systolic heart failure. There’s also a few nitroglycerins for angina. This guy was a walking time bomb.”
Max yanked the knife from Spartak’s thigh and wiped the blood on the dead man’s shirt before stalking out of the tent into the stifling heat. Another falcon flew lazy circles against the azure-blue sky. The elegant creature floated on an air current before disappearing over the rocky ridge. Otherwise, the desert was still.
He kicked a Humvee tire, banged his hand on the hood, and squatted in the sand so the sun warmed his back. Spencer walked out of the tent followed by Sammi. The CIA man crossed his arms and studied the ground while the Iraqi inspected the remaining Humvee.
Spencer leaned on the Humvee’s grill, his arms still crossed. “At least that’s two consortium members dead.”
Max grabbed a handful of pebbles and tossed them into the sand one by one. “We lost an opportunity to learn some valuable intel. Like what was Victor Dedov doing here?”
“True.” Spencer nodded once. “But you planned to kill him anyway.”
Casting away the remaining pebbles, Max stood. “We only get so many opportunities.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t look at the bottle.” Spencer kicked the sand. “I might have been able to warn you.”
Max punched Spencer lightly in the shoulder. “My fault. I got carried away.”
“Help me with these crates,” Sammi called from behind the Humvee.
Spencer ambled over to help Sammi load the crates of weapons into the back of the Humvee.
Squatting, Max stared into the dim interior of the tent while going over the past month. Goshawk’s discovery of the intel indicating where and when the weapons sale would take place. The time of the deal in GMT, the location in GPS coordinates, the number of vehicles, and even the count of Spartak’s men. Funny, the dossier didn’t mention Dedov or specifics on his soldiers. Was this a setup by Dedov to capture Max, kill Spartak, and make off with the weapons? That complex of an operation was not beyond Dedov’s abilities. When Max failed to kill Spartak and was instead captured, the former KGB director disappeared.
He stood too fast, fought off a wave of dizziness, and removed the small metal box from his pocket. And what about this thing? Was Spartak feigning surprise? Or is it part of the set up?
Behind him, a diesel engine started. Sammi yelled and pounded the side of the Humvee. “We should go.”
The Iraqi was right. The longer they stayed, the more they invited unwanted attention from a wandering band of ISIS fighters, a Kurdish patrol, or Dedov’s men coming back to claim the weapons. As his adrenaline faded, the pain in his ribs surged. He surveyed the partially destroyed tent and the two wrecked Humvees. A gaping hole stood in the side of the tent where the Humvee drove through, and flies hovered over the soldier’s bodies. His eyes roved over the encampment.
Something was off.
It didn’t add up. Sure, Sammi was an effective fighter, but could he take out four highly trained soldiers with a single rifle?
A door creaked as Spencer climbed into the rear of the Humvee. Sammi had his elbow out the window and watched him with a curious grin. He should get into the vehicle and make for the Iraqi border. Instead, Max walked into the tent and let his eyes grow accustomed to the murk.
The former Russian major sat slumped in the chair where he died, a swarm of flies buzzing around the wounds in his thighs. Two dead soldiers lay where they were shot, one by the big .50 caliber gun, the other by Max’s rifle. He approached one of the soldiers and rifled through his pockets but found only a plastic lighter and cigarettes. He tapped one out, lit it with the lighter, and inhaled the strong Turkish smoke.
The taste reminded him of his father, who favored the short but heavy Turkish cigarettes. He smiled at the memory of his father standing in the backyard of their gated estate west of Minsk and talking on his mobile phone in a hushed voice while cradling one of the smokes in his fingers. His father wore the cigarette in his hand like an accessory. Despite the constant smoking, his father’s health never suffered. Andrei Asimov could run for miles in heavy boots through the tundra before putting a bullet through a man’s forehead at eight hundred meters, earning him the nickname The Bear. Max shrugged off the melancholy, knowing that he would never see his father again, and flicked ash into the sand while looking around the tent.
Thanks for leaving me with this mess, papa.
Another glance around the tent, but the niggling sensation in the back of his neck didn’t go away. What the hell had happened here?
He exited the tent into the sunshine and examined the bodies of the dead gray-uniformed soldiers sprawled around the vehicles. Two lay in pools of sandy blood with their chests torn apart by small caliber fire from Sammi’s M16.
The other two dead soldiers lay on their backs where they crumpled halfway between the tent and the line of Humvees. Max squatted and flicked ash into the sand.
One man’s head was shorn off at the neck. The second’s man’s face was intact, but the top of his skull was a ragged mess. The two wounds bore the signature of a large caliber sniper rifle, not the smaller M16. What the hell?
Rising to his feet, Max banged on the hood of the Humvee. “Sammi, how many guards did you kill outside the tent?”
The Iraqi revved the engine. “Two? Three? Four? Don’t know. Bogeys for real this time. Let’s beat feet.”
Rotors thumped in the distance. It was a sound that brought either fear or hope to any soldier—the fear of an approaching enemy or the hope of swift rescue. These weren’t rescue birds.
He took a last drag on the cigarette and dropped the butt into the sand. While he ground it out with the toe of his boot, he gazed around at the surrounding desert.
Was it possible?
A buzzard, her dull orange plumage ruffling in the breeze, circled lazily in the blue sky above a far-off ridge. Max scanned the ridge line for glints of light or telltale movements among the scrub but saw nothing.
“Damn it, Max. Time to go.” Spencer’s voice was urgent.
He let his eyes linger over the landscap
e for a few more beats before yanking open the front passenger door and jumping in. He didn’t stop scanning the surrounding desert scrub until their Humvee crested a hill and the cluster of tents disappeared. As he settled in for the long ride and wondered who the sniper might be, he remembered one of his father’s favorite quotes.
All things are possible, son, until they are proven impossible.
Max clutched Spartak’s leather bag between his feet and gripped the plastic stock of an AK-74. The Humvee bounced and careened over the rutted dirt track, and they left the valley behind and sped south in the direction of a Kurdish encampment, where Sammi’s friends would usher them farther south and across the border into Iraq.
As he watched the arid landscape fly by the window, he thought of Kate Shaw, the woman who rescued him from Belarus and welcomed him into the protection of the CIA, only to herself be pushed aside by a CIA director with her own agenda. After Kate risked her career and livelihood to help Max in his fight against the consortium, she was arrested and incarcerated by that same CIA director, a woman named Piper Montgomery. Now Max was once again on his own, without help from an agency. It’s better this way.
Max shouted at Spencer to make himself heard over the Humvee’s drone. “Any word on Kate?”
Lines of pain were etched on the older man’s face behind the scraggly white beard and blazing brown eyes as he gazed at the passing landscape. He shook his head.
Spencer, who spent years under Kate’s command, had watched as she was taken prisoner by a band of blue-suited government-issued men after she was ambushed by her former boss, Bill Blackwood. Spencer shouted to be heard over the Humvee’s rumble. “Now that another consortium target is in the ground, what’s next?”
Max guessed what was really on his friend’s mind. The idea of finding and rescuing Kate was troubling. He owed Kate Shaw a debt, and he had grown fond of the stoic and resolute woman in the short time they had known each other. The idea of her shackled in a stockade, eating prison food, and subjected to horrific interrogation made him nauseous. Where are you, Kate?
