Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

  “We look that dangerous, huh?” Dawson said past a clenched jaw.

  “You read and write Arabic as well as speak it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In that case, make a note of all the names and ID numbers you can remember, as soon as possible. Just in case.”

  Just in case I don’t come back.

  “Won’t be easy if they’ve taken away everything including my bootlaces.”

  “Somehow, Luisa, I don’t think they’ve come for you.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice dry. “I feel so rejected.”

  The officer put down his radio mic and returned. He did not bring my license with him. Good job I only ever carry copies.

  “It would seem that you are wanted for questioning by our esteemed colleagues across the border,” he said in classless, almost accentless English.

  “Questioning with regard to what?”

  He opened my door, hand now resting on the grip of the gun. “You will please step out of the vehicle, Miss Fox,” he said. “You will come with us.”

  “My colleague, as you can see, is injured and will find driving herself difficult. Perhaps I could return her to her hotel first and accompany you from there.”

  “One of my officers will drive this vehicle.” He jerked his head to the men behind us. “Perhaps it is not your . . . colleague you should be concerned about.”

  I shrugged and climbed out. He gestured me to walk ahead of him and fell in behind my shoulder. By instinct too ingrained to give up, I gauged the height and weight of him, the likely level of his skills, his reactions, and the location of his sidearm, even as I logged the positions of his men, their fields of fire.

  Last resort . . .

  It was not much comfort.

  He opened the rear door of the cruiser for me, but at least he didn’t put a hand on my head to help me on my way as I slid inside. The rear of the car was caged off with reinforced Plexiglas. As the door shut with a prison-cell clang, I tried to reassure myself that at least he hadn’t cuffed me as well.

  The officer and his M4-toting buddy got back into the front. As we rejoined the road I twisted in my seat to check on Dawson. One of the men from the rear car was just climbing behind the wheel of the Range Rover. As we moved rapidly away, she stared after me from the passenger side, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

  I leaned forward slightly in my seat, spoke through the small slot in the acrylic screen that separated me from the two policemen.

  “If you’re going to take me over the border, shouldn’t I have my passport with me?” I asked, even though it was safely tucked away in the leg pocket of my cargo trousers. They hadn’t patted me down, or they undoubtedly would have found it, and that omission bothered me.

  Still, they hadn’t found the folded Ka-Bar knife shoved down the side of my boot, either.

  Some you lose, some you win.

  TWELVE

  IT TOOK ME LONGER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE TO REALIZE WE WEREN’T heading for the border.

  Being so slow off the mark was entirely my fault. I’d had little more than the duration of a long-haul flight to prepare for this assignment, if that’s what it was. So I’d focused on Iraq, to the extent that my familiarity with the geography of Kuwait in general—and Kuwait City in particular—was superficial, to say the least.

  I sat locked in the back of a police cruiser, silently cursing at such a foolish, basic mistake—and at finding myself being driven, for the second time in as many days, to an unknown destination. Unlike my trip with Garton-Jones, however, there was no easy way to coerce cooperation out of my kidnappers. I didn’t even try.

  The two men in the front might or might not have been genuine officers. Although they were noted for enforcing the law with reasonable reliability, the Kuwaiti police also had a reputation for not being above taking bribes. And they had a noted bias toward their own citizens rather than foreigners when it came to disputes.

  This country was supposed to be a staging post, nothing more. I hadn’t anticipated needing anything from Kuwaiti nationals. Question was, what did somebody here want with me?

  I closed my eyes a moment, tried to picture my safe room—the place into which I could mentally retreat under . . . robust interrogation. It was a long time since I’d needed to adopt such a construct. I hoped I could still remember how.

  The last time was when I went undercover into an organization called Fourth Day in Southern California, considered by the security services to be a dangerous cult. I thought my backstory was sound, that it would stand up to the kind of pressure-testing it was likely to encounter. Instead, I discovered that Fourth Day’s leader, Randall Bane, had a way of getting inside your head, under your skin. He could cut to the heart of memories and emotions with an accuracy that was almost surgical. In the debriefings that followed, I did not admit to anyone—least of all my boss, Parker Armstrong—how much the man had unnerved me.

  And before that?

  Before that was the army. Or, more specifically, during my all-too-brief stint in Special Forces. Resistance to interrogation exercises were all part of the training. Ironically, it was during a particularly realistic and nasty one that Sean Meyer first allowed me a glimpse of the human being beneath that hard-bastard exterior. Up to that point, I think all of us had begun to suspect that he might not be human at all.

  As one of our training instructors, he’d kept his distance from the group, never let his guard drop as though to do so might expose a weakness we’d exploit. But, unlike the others, I never got the impression he despised the women who’d made it through Selection. He looked down equally on all of us.

  He also didn’t have the same predatory air as one or two of the other sergeants, who would lag behind so they could offer us a helping hand—in return for certain . . . considerations, of course.

  On the whole, I’d thought Sean a cold fish. I found out the first night we spent together how wrong I was about him. He had formidable self-control, almost as if he dared not let himself go for fear of what we might do to each other.

  He watched my every response, allowed me nowhere to hide, both taking everything and giving everything in return. I believe it was that ruthless streak I found most attractive. The quality about him that started my fall . . .

  The cruiser slowed and swung off the main highway onto a side road leading to what looked like a run-down industrial area. The driver took his corners fast enough that any contemplation of jumping from the car was a nonstarter. And that was discounting the fact there were no handles or window winders on the inside of the rear doors. The glass had a discolored quality to it that spoke of some kind of reinforcement.

  I conserved my resources for a more promising opportunity.

  It was stifling in the back of the cruiser. The men in the front had the air-con wound up to maximum, but little made its way through the slot in the Plexiglas screen between us. I hoped that, wherever we were going, we got there soon, otherwise I was going to lose half my body weight in sweat.

  There were no people on the streets. The parked cars and the buildings we passed were coated with a layer of dust, as if forgotten.

  Eventually, we turned sharply to the left through an open roller shutter door into the ground floor of an empty warehouse building. The contrast between the acid glare outside and the dim interior left me momentarily blinded.

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a Cadillac Escalade with dark paint and darker glass. It gleamed with polish, as if they’d spent the time waiting for us giving it a full valet. Around it stood three guys in combat-style fatigues and body armor. They all carried automatic weapons—a couple of M4s and a compact H&K. I did not take this as an encouraging sign for my continued health.

  The cruiser stopped and both men got out. The officer who’d done all the talking went across to them. His body language was cautious, but less than during our traffic stop. Either these were men he trusted, or they were ones he’d dealt with before. The second officer stay
ed behind his open door, fingers flexing on his own weapon.

  One of the trio detached and came forward, letting his MP5K dangle on its shoulder strap. There followed some talk and much gesticulating. I gathered the officer was trying to play on how difficult I’d been to apprehend and therefore up the price. The newcomer wasn’t having any of it.

  Neither he nor the other men with the Cadillac looked like Iraqis, or Kuwaitis, come to that. They were all hardcases, though; that tends to be a universal type. I studied their faces, each in turn, just as I’d studied the two men in the front of the cruiser during the drive. I’d recognize those two again by the shape of their ears, clearly visible below their sloped berets. The human ear is unique in shape. I believe someone was once caught and convicted by the print of his ear left pressed against a window.

  I sat and sweated in the residual heat during the brief negotiations. Even out of direct sunlight I could feel it dripping down the indentations of my spine.

  After a moment, the two men reached some kind of agreement. A package—money? drugs?—changed hands. Then it was all smiles.

  The officer beckoned to his colleague, who turned far enough to open one rear door. He jerked the barrel of his weapon to indicate this was the last stop and I should vacate the train.

  “No thanks,” I said cheerfully. “I think I’ll pass.”

  He didn’t follow all the words, but he got the meaning clearly enough. His eyebrows bunched together, and under his breath he called me and my mother something that was both uncomplimentary and, I thought, probably physically impossible. Strange how the first words you always pick up in any language are the insults.

  The officer glared at me, gave a more emphatic command. I smiled at him and didn’t move.

  He glanced to his superior and gave a shrug. This was not how captives behaved. He leaned in, awkward with the M4 in one hand, and made a grab for my wrist.

  I let him get hold of me, then broke his grip easily enough and rotated his hand into a simple lock. He grunted, tried to yank free. I tightened the lock, feeling the torsional twist of bone and tendon, knowing that his arm from the elbow downward must feel like it was on fire.

  He started to bring his weapon to bear. I kept hold of his wrist, pivoted on the seat, and booted the receiver up against the forward edge of the door jamb, trapping his other hand. Then I rolled backward and kicked him square in the throat.

  He fell away, choking. I let him go just as the opposite rear door was yanked open behind me and the other officer loomed furiously into the car. I saw his arm come up. There was a flash of movement, something hard traveling very fast toward me. My vision cracked into light and pain.

  Then everything went black.

  THIRTEEN

  THE BLOW STUNNED ME ONLY FOR A MOMENT. JUST LONG ENOUGH for the senior officer to drag me bodily out of the back seat of the cruiser. The thump as I hit the concrete floor brought me out of it.

  Fighting.

  He had me by the back of my collar and was dragging me toward the men with the Cadillac. I grabbed his hand, dug thumb and forefinger viciously deep into pressure points I could find in my sleep.

  He yowled, whirled with his nightstick raised. I swiveled on my backside as if break-dancing, hooked one leg behind his, and scissored the heel of my boot into his kneecap as hard as I could manage.

  He’d clearly received some kind of unarmed combat instruction as part of his training, but either that was a long time ago or he’d been a very poor student. With no idea of how to break his fall, he sprawled heavily on his back.

  I spun again, still on my arse, and wrapped my legs around the arm that held the baton. The elbow joint is remarkably fragile when overstressed, and I had his locked up within an inch of needing surgical reconstruction. I placed the sole of my boot against his neck to keep everything tight, and dug in deep again with clawed fingers. After a moment’s resistance that was down to pure obstinacy, the baton dropped from his nerveless hand.

  “Kuchi sin!” said a guttural voice from above us. “That is enough.”

  I looked up, squinting against the ceiling lights. The man who’d done the negotiating had the stubby MP5K back in his hands and was pointing it at the pair of us.

  I screwed the lock on one last quarter turn, evoking a muffled gasp from the officer, then let go and rolled quickly to my feet—and out of his reach. The room swayed, steadied. I shook my head to clear it.

  As soon as I released my captive, he grabbed for the nightstick baton, started to scramble in my direction with blood in his eyes. The guy with the machine pistol stuffed it unceremoniously into the officer’s face. It was probably the only way to get his attention.

  “I said enough,” he repeated. “You have your money. Go.”

  The officer hesitated, loss of face warring with common sense. Eventually, he spat at my feet and stalked back to the cruiser, trying not to limp, brushing the concrete dust from his uniform as he went. I was tempted to point out the big patch of it on the seat of his pants, but I restrained myself.

  His colleague was on his feet again, also, by then. The pair of them gave me the evil eye as they climbed back into their vehicle and reversed out of the warehouse with little regard to wear on tires or transmission.

  “That . . . performance will cost me,” the man said heavily as he watched them go. “Our next dealings will be much more . . . expensive. This is . . . unfortunate.”

  “I don’t see why it needs to be.” I shrugged. “After all, I am only a woman. How could a mere woman cause trouble for two such experienced officers of the law?”

  And when he glanced at me with a scowl, I added, “Play your cards right and they will pay you never to speak of this again.”

  He gave a grunt that could signify amusement or contempt, take your pick, and ushered me toward the back of the Cadillac.

  I stood my ground. “What makes you think, after all that, I’m going to do as I’m told now?”

  The man with the machine pistol turned back with a sigh, as if about to speak. Instead, he rabbit-punched me, short and sharp, in the solar plexus. My diaphragm went into instant spasm. I bent over, struggling to pull air into paralyzed lungs, making horrendous death-rattle noises. The man walked on, opened the rear door of the Cadillac, and gave a slight bow.

  “Because, even though you are ‘merely a woman,’ you are not a stupid one,” he said. “Now, please, Miss Fox. We have gone to a considerable amount of trouble to arrange this . . . opportunity to talk. Let us both make good use of it, yes?”

  FOURTEEN

  THE ENGINE WAS RUNNING ON THE CADILLAC. ENOUGH TO KEEP THE air-con ticking over and the interior cool as glass.

  The man with the MP5K settled into the far corner of the cavernous rear seat, the weapon cradled on his lap like the fluffy white cat of a Bond villain. For a few moments we sat and weighed each other up without speaking.

  He had high, slanted cheekbones with deep hollows beneath, so that in the vehicle’s interior lighting his face looked more like a skull. His hair was shaved down to stubble, showing the outline of a high forehead and widow’s peak. There were the small odd-shaped voids of old scars on his scalp. His short-sleeved shirt showed muscled forearms. On the back of his right wrist was a tattoo of a frog inside the outline of a bat.

  “Do we start with introductions? Clearly you know who I am, so . . . ?”

  The man smiled. “It is not necessary for you to know my identity. In fact, I would prefer you did not attempt to discover it.”

  His English was excellent, formal and precise. Hardly a trace of an accent . . . but it lay underneath like a coat of old paint, just the same.

  “Oh, you ‘would prefer’?” I repeated flatly. “Of course you would.”

  He inclined his head and smiled again. It was not reassuring.

  “I am merely a messenger—a go-between—and therefore being aware of my identity will not add to your knowledge.”

  “What kind of messenger?”

  And what kind
of message?

  “Please, Miss Fox, have patience. Know only that I have gone to a good deal of trouble and expense to engineer this opportunity to speak with you.”

  I gave a short laugh. “You could have saved yourself all that by simply coming to my hotel and walking up to me in the bar.”

  “Perhaps. But this way you have some idea of the . . . extent of our influence here.”

  “That you know which cops to bribe, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “OK, so let’s hear it—this message.”

  “Go home.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That is it,” he agreed. “Go home and do not concern yourself with affairs that are none of your business.”

  “I see. And if I choose to disregard this . . . advice?”

  “I would ask you not to regard this as mere advice. That—with respect—would be a mistake.”

  Rarely had I encountered someone so well armed and yet so politely spoken.

  “Also with respect, it is difficult to reach that conclusion for myself without knowing exactly who is sending me this message.”

  “A friend. Someone who knows you. Someone who has your best interests at heart.”

  Did he mean Sean? I eyed the man opposite. Ex-military without a doubt. And Russian. The kind of man Sean would have encountered many times both during his own army career and afterward.

  The fact he was a stranger to me didn’t necessarily mean a thing. I had not been Sean’s keeper during the time we’d been together, any more than he’d been mine. He had made and developed his own contacts across many countries. I trawled my memory for anyone he’d mentioned, however casually, who he might trust to deliver this warning. I came up blank.

  And surely he wouldn’t feel the need for all the cloak-and-dagger rigmarole, anyway. Hiding behind intermediaries? Having me grabbed off the street by corrupt cops, for heaven’s sake? It was not his style.