Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  “The boogeyman?”

  “Yes. Zahir is the bourgeois man that scares smugglers, so they give up their loads.” She shrugged. “No one has seen him. No one even knows anyone who has seen him. Finally I decide, it’s easier to just be the shadow than to find him.”

  Hamid laughed again. “Sorry,” he said, hands up. “I’ll be quiet. It’s just . . .” He leaned toward Yelena, “Hanging with this guy’s been pretty dull. Juno said he was a badass, but all he does is read poems and, like, silently brood, lurking in the dust. You know?”

  Now Yelena laughed. “See?” she told Joe. “He thinks I am cooler than you. And a badder ass.”

  Joe nodded. “I’m not arguing. You win. Especially in the ass department.”

  “Yo, let’s a get a hookah,” Hamid suggested. “It’s called a chillum here I think.”

  “Maybe later,” Joe said. “I want to check out this first.” He pulled a folded page from his pocket: the printout of a map and a photo of a nondescript five-story building. “Juno couldn’t get much off of Felix’s cellphone,” he told Yelena as he handed her the papers, “but some of his messages are from an IP address that connects back to here.”

  “We already drove by yesterday,” Hamid complained. “It’s just a regular office building.”

  “He’s right,” Joe admitted. “Nothing to do with politics or fundamentalists. Just shipping and receiving for a company called Wildwater. Some kind of contractors. But . . .” He grinned at Yelena. “As long as you’re in the neighborhood, I bet they have a safe.”

  She laughed. “This is Joe’s idea of a date,” she told Hamid.

  “Oh man, I’d love to see you work,” he gushed.

  “Easy,” Joe said. “You need to stay in the room, get in touch with Juno, and be ready to relay whatever we find.”

  “Don’t worry,” Yelena told him. “I know a good hookah place in Kabul. And also one back in Astoria.”

  The Wildwater office in Kandahar was in a nondescript five-story office building close to what the local paper optimistically called “the famous” Shaheedan Square. Joe and Yelena took her motorbike, with her driving, still in black but minus the mask and turban, and Joe behind her, one arm snaked around her ribcage, his chest against her, a bag with their weapons and her tools on his back. It was late, and there was not much in the way of nightlife. A few cars and bikes rolled through the traffic circle in the center of the square. Taxis and motorized, open-backed carts cruised for passengers or loitered by the cafés. They parked in the alley behind the building, walked into the loading bay where, during the day, trucks came and went, and while Joe kept watch, Yelena got in the door in less time than most people took with keys.

  The building was drab, concrete and steel, dusty and filled with import/export firms and companies supplying the military. Finding their way upstairs with flashlights they’d covered with tape, leaving just a small beam, they headed swiftly and silently to the top floor, where the lock on the office door was even less serious than downstairs.

  And at first glance, there wasn’t much to protect. It was an office much like any other, a little less modern than the New York equivalent—desks, chairs, filing cabinets, old desktop computers, a watercooler. In a back room, with a bigger desk, a bigger chair, and a much-napped-on leather couch, Yelena spotted an old freestanding safe.

  “You work on this,” Joe whispered, handing her the bag. “I’ll deal with the stuff in the office.”

  Joe went to a desk with an old computer, just a step or two above floppy disks, and turned it on. While it slowly booted up he got out the iPhone Juno had given him—his own phone was a basic flip—and called the only number on it, Hamid’s.

  “Hey,” Hamid said immediately.

  “It’s me,” Joe said.

  “I know.”

  “Do you have Juno patched in?” Joe asked.

  “Hey, bro,” Juno shouted into Joe’s ear. “I’m right here, back home in the studio. How’s Afghanistan? You hit the beaches yet? I hear you met an old friend too.”

  “Afghanistan is landlocked, Juno. And let’s be cool on the phone, right?”

  “Sorry. You’re right. You ready to transmit?”

  “In a minute,” Joe said. He set the phone on the desk and pulled a cord from his pocket. The screen now asked for a password, but Joe ignored that and plugged his cord directly into a port on the rear of the machine. He plugged the other end into the phone. “Okay,” he told Juno and Hamid, “you’re hooked up.”

  “I’m on it,” Juno said. “Hamid, just chill and monitor the signal.”

  “Right,” Hamid said. “I’m chilling.”

  The computer screen flickered with a stream of numbers as Juno hacked in remotely, and Joe began inspecting the papers on the desks, using his flashlight and, with a small camera, snapping photos of anything that seemed remotely interesting. There wasn’t much: purchase, shipping, and customs documents, packing lists and invoices for shoelaces, water bottles, sunglasses, tires, and blankets—all the mundane crap that it took to run a war, most of it harmless except as trash in a landfill, and as a waste of tax money. No extremist tracts or receipts for heroin. Hopefully, Yelena would have better luck. Meanwhile he snapped away without much enthusiasm, pausing only when he saw, from the documents flashing by on the screen, that Juno was in and downloading the contents of the hard drive. He picked up the phone, which was still connected to the computer.

  “Hey guys. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going,” Juno said. “But I don’t know where. Looks like a bunch of bookkeeping crap to me.”

  “Yeah same here . . .” Joe began, but then dropped the phone, as Yelena came running out of the office, bag in her hand.

  “Go!” she yelled as she slammed the office door behind her, but she didn’t need to say anything. Joe knew from the look on her face. They bolted across the room, throwing the hall door shut behind them, and were just turning a corner of the hallway when an explosion ripped through the building, obliterating the office they were just in and rattling the entire place. They dove to the floor, instinctively clutching each other. The sound was deafening. Plaster dust poured down. The whole structure groaned like an old ship, but it held. After breathing in the dark for a second, and registering that he was alive and, except for the ringing in his ears, unharmed, Joe found his flashlight and clicked it on.

  “You okay?” he asked Yelena, still whispering, though it hardly mattered. The whole neighborhood was awake.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just my pride is hurt.”

  “We can bandage that later,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”

  They began to make their way downstairs, a bit slower than before, stepping carefully over fallen signs and toppled trash cans, though for the most part, the rest of the building seemed intact.

  “Booby trap?” Joe asked as they hurried down.

  “A very good one too,” she told him. “Better than the shit safe.”

  She explained that the old safe had been wired with a high-tech explosive device, set to destroy the contents of the safe if it was opened, along with anyone nearby.

  “Guess working here isn’t as boring as it looks,” Joe said.

  “But we won’t know why,” Yelena said as they reached the street level and went back out the alley door. “Sorry, Joe.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Joe told her. “At least we got out clean.”

  But he spoke too soon, because shortly after they got back on the bike, and Yelena started to drive, a Humvee with floodlights and a machine gun mounted on the roof came straight down the alley at them.

  7

  TOOMEY LED POWELL UP a dark staircase and knocked on the door. A moment later, it drew back and he entered a large private dining room, opulently furnished with cushions and drapes, dim lights and filigreed, openwork panels filtering the night air. No one was dining, however. The table held an ornate tea service—from the scent he knew it was chai green tea brewed with ginger and walnuts—as well as
a bowl of fruit and dishes of sweets. A ruddy-faced, heavyset old man in a pink dress shirt and khakis sat at the head, ignoring the tea and treats and holding a glass of rosewater and lemonade over ice. He wore a wedding band, a Rolex, and an excellent toupee, and the blazer draped over the back of his chair had an American flag lapel pin. He looked familiar. He could have been a senator, except that then Powell would have recognized him.

  To his left sat a tougher, harder-looking man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a seamed, tanned face. He wore an expensive white silk shirt and expensive navy silk trousers and a gold Russian cross around his neck. Russian then. There was an unlit Cuban cigar and a gold lighter on the table before him, next to his tea. Across from him, on the American’s right, sat a younger, heavily muscled man, his hair grown out but still neat, in a camouflage T-shirt and jeans, with a USMC tattoo and an open laptop on the table. An ex-Marine, working no doubt for the senatorial American.

  The fourth person in the room was a mystery. For one thing she was female. Also younger than the others, probably in her twenties, though she could have passed for a teenager, still with a layer of baby fat, her chubby cheeks dotted with pimples. She had a striking look, reddish auburn hair expensively chopped into a decidedly unmilitary, artful mess, very fair skin that could not have seen much Afghan sun, and striking green eyes. She wore a thin vintage Grateful Dead T-shirt cut high to reveal a few inches of soft belly, torn jeans, and a black biker jacket. Was she the Russian’s mistress? No. Not flashy enough—she wore a black leather choker and an Apple watch but no gold or makeup, expensive high-top designer sneakers but no heels, and why would he have her here anyway? She was young enough to be the American’s daughter, but first of all, Powell didn’t sense she was American, at least not all-American like the older man, and she was languidly sprawled on some cushions smoking a chillum, tobacco mixed with hash, and sipping Sharbat-E-Rayhan, a cold drink made with basil seeds, staring at them all with a look of total impudence and indifference, as if they had mildly disturbed her private party—hardly the type for take-your-daughter-to-work-day. Plus she was armed; from the way she sat, and the way her jacket draped, it was clear to Powell that there was a handgun strapped beneath it. But all that was beside the point: the sharp, cold look in her eyes made it clear she was not here on anyone else’s arm. She was no pet. She was a predator.

  The other mystery was who was not here. No Afghanis. No Arabs or Middle Easterners of any sort. No one who could plausibly be Zahir.

  “Gentlemen,” Toomey said to the table, pointedly ignoring the woman, who blew steamed smoke into the air. “Let me introduce you to Mike Powell, CIA.”

  All three men turned to him. The older American stood. “Mike, I’m Bob Richards, CEO of Wildwater. Thanks for coming out.” He reached across the table and gave Powell a CEO-quality handshake. Of course: Bob Richards was ex-NSA, from before Powell’s time, and now headed up a company of military contractors, operating worldwide, handling everything from logistics, supplies, and construction, to training and security, to, some said, mercenary warfare and covert ops with which official agencies didn’t want to be connected. “This is Jensen, my assistant,” he added.

  “It’s an honor, sir,” Powell said, then turned to Jensen who rose, shook, and sat back down, hands on the keyboard.

  “And this is Nick,” Richards said, settling back in his chair.

  The Russian smiled but did not stir or shake. “I prefer Nikolai. But first names only for now, I’m afraid,” he said in fluent but accented English. “You understand.”

  Powell smiled back. “SVR?” he asked, guessing he was with the Russian Intelligence Service, the successor to the KGB.

  “I am here unofficially like you. To advise and observe.” He shrugged. “So not even really here at all.”

  “Have a seat, Mike,” Toomey said, pulling a chair out and taking one himself. “Let’s talk.” He turned to the others. “Mike has already been pretty helpful, confirming the ID on Brody.”

  Now Jensen spoke, looking up from his screen. “You say he was ex-Special Forces, but I can’t find a record. Not even high security.”

  Powell nodded, realizing now that of course they’d been listening to him and Toomey downstairs. “There is none. His records have been erased. Make of that what you will.”

  “Black ops,” Jensen said.

  “Pitch black. That’s all I know.”

  “And now he’s gone rogue, you say? Doing hits and pulling jobs for a Mafia family?”

  Powell shrugged. What did rogue even mean, in his present company? “He grew up with Gio Caprisi. But maybe, before I say more, you should tell me why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because there’s a war going on, Mike. Same as us,” Toomey said, but Richards waved him down.

  “What Rick means is, some of our likeminded colleagues in the company thought you were our kind of people, and that you’d fit in.”

  “Fit in with what?”

  “War is expensive, Mike. You know that. Everyone does. But what the public doesn’t realize is that it doesn’t just cost money and lives, it takes time. And it takes will. Iron will. Politicians haven’t got the stomach for that; they’re too worried about reelection. They’re cowards by nature. And the public doesn’t have the patience. They want, as they said back in Vietnam, to declare victory and go home. Have a parade and be done with it. Go back to sleep.” He shrugged. “So a group of us, people in the military and intelligence communities, professionals like yourself, along with some members of the present administration, decided to step in and sort of . . . guide things along. Make sure the will didn’t weaken, as we see this thing through to victory.”

  “Whatever that takes,” Toomey added.

  “You mean Al-Qaeda? ISIS? The war on terror?”

  “We mean the war for the future of the world,” Toomey told him.

  Richards spoke again, leaning back in his chair. “Like Rick said, we are, as you know, embroiled in a conflict. The war on terror, of course, but that’s just part of it. It’s a clash of civilizations, of value systems, east versus west, freedom versus slavery.”

  “Christian versus Islam,” the Russian, Nikolai, said. “For us too. We even fought right here, in this same place.”

  “It’s been going on since 9/11,” Richards said. “Longer really.”

  Toomey laughed. “Try a thousand years.”

  “And it won’t be settled in my lifetime either,” Richards said, with a wave of his hand.

  “And Zahir?” Powell asked, taking this all in.

  “A useful fiction,” Richards said. “A way to stir the pot. Or stoke the fire, you could say. When will falters, and interest flags, we use Zahir to keep the voters—or should I say viewers—focused back home, which keeps the politicians on point, which keeps the right parties on the ground here off balance or in need of our help.”

  Powell nodded. “And all of which keeps the arms and money flowing.”

  Richards smiled. “Like I said, war is expensive. And victory takes men who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, and to apply pressure when necessary. Men like us. And you.”

  Toomey leaned over and squeezed Powell’s arm. “Men with a will of iron.”

  All eyes were on Powell, gauging his reaction, but Jensen broke in, addressing Richards.

  “Sorry sir, but we’ve had a break-in at the Kandahar office.” He turned to Powell. “It looks like your pal Brody and the Russian girl are sticking their noses in. Almost got them blown off too.”

  Toomey stood to see the screen and, for the first time, Nikolai seemed concerned. Richards explained to Powell while Jensen spoke into his earpiece. “We have the office booby-trapped. They won’t find anything.” He turned to Toomey: “But what about the latest shipment?”

  “It’s already en route,” he said. “I handled it personally. Nothing can stop it now.”

  “Good,” Richards nodded. “Then all they’ve done is destroy our evidence for us.”

&n
bsp; Jensen reported: “Our security team is on the way to intercept them now. And I scrambled the chopper.”

  “Let’s go,” Toomey said. Nikolai stood too and prepared to move.

  “Care to observe from the air?” Richards said. “Might be your last look at Joe Brody.”

  “I’ll pass sir,” Powell said. He’d been given a lot to think about, and although he knew he was already involved, even by listening, he was hesitant to commit to action. And, happy as he would be to see Joe’s head on a stick, he also knew that operations involving Joe Brody tended to get out of hand. “It’s been a long day, and I’m just getting my bearings.”

  “We’ll talk later then,” Richards said and left in a hurry, flanked by the other men. Suddenly Powell found himself alone with the young woman who was now staring right him with an odd smile and blowing fragrant smoke like a Cheshire cat.

  8

  YELENA TURNED THE BIKE around when she saw the Humvee coming, and sped back the opposite way, just as the gunner opened fire. Bullets whistled invisibly past Joe’s ears and flattened themselves into the concrete. Then another truck, carrying more men, came around the corner of the alley, blinding them with roof lights and sealing that exit as well. It did, however, have the immediate benefit of halting the gunfire, since the gunners on both vehicles knew they were likely to hit each other. Cursing under her breath, Yelena stopped and spun the bike around again, touching her boot to the ground for balance. She drove them back into the loading bay of the building.

  “So?” She looked back over her shoulder at Joe, who was pulling a machine pistol from his pack. “Fight here or go back upstairs?”

  “Keep going,” Joe told her, and as the first truck turned into the bay behind them, he was ready. Aiming carefully from the rear of the bike, he shot at the gunner, who dropped down into the interior of the Humvee, then sprayed the front, shattering the windshield and the lights. In the momentary dark, as the men inside took cover and began to scramble out, Yelena drove the bike through the doorway and, revving the engine, began to take them up the stairs, nosing the front tire slowly over the steps while Joe hung on. They rode up, taking the turns slowly and then pushing it on the flights, bouncing up, moving at about the pace of a quick jog. Looking down into the stairwell, Joe could see flashlights playing over the stairs, and make out the sound of men yelling or squawking over the radios. They weren’t far behind. Then, at the top landing, Yelena jerked to a stop.