Scorpion Winter
Andrew Kaplan
Dedication
Once again for Anne and Justin,
my North Star and my GPS
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
About the Author
Resounding Acclaim for the Novels of Andrew Kaplan
By Andrew Kaplan
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Penal Colony 9
Siberia, Russia
The prisoner Pyotr S. lay awake in the darkness, listening to Lev die. The cell was icy cold. Inside Strafnaja Kolonija Dyevyit, Penal Colony 9, a prison so secret its existence was known to only a handful within the FSB’s headquarters in Moscow, even hardened prisoners accustomed to some of the coldest temperatures on the planet shivered in their sleep. The temperature outside was –51 Celsius, 60 below zero Fahrenheit. The prison was a solitary island in the vast forests of the Siberian taiga, covered with snow; still more snow fell silently through the floodlights on the outer fence.
Pyotr listened to the desperate gasps from the bunk above him as Lev struggled for every breath. Once, after midnight, it got so bad that he thought of killing Lev to get it over with. But if one of the suki bitches told on him, it would mean the beating cells. Pyotr waited.
He heard a harsh grating sound as if Lev were trying to say something, and waited for Lev to exhale, only it never came. Pyotr raised his head and listened intently, ears straining for every sound. Inside the crowded cell with eight men crammed into a space designed for two, there were only the usual snores and muffled coughs. Even Fyedka the Belly—who it was said would eat excrement if you put it in a bowl—and his usual racking cough, was finally still.
Carefully, so as not to wake the others, Pyotr slid out of his bunk. He felt his way to the middle bunk above his and put his hand on Lev’s chest. There was no rising of the chest, no heartbeat, nothing. It was like touching stone.
Finally, he thought. He himself had been a prisoner for twelve years now, and Lev had been there longer than anyone. Some said Lev was a prisoner going back to the old Gulag. Once, he’d heard that Lev had been a big shot, a real nachalstvo. But of this, Pyotr knew nothing. Lev had been imprisoned for “activities against the state,” but who hadn’t? What was it Gruishin, his first cell-block leader, a true vor v zakone—thief-in-law—used to say? “Brothers, sometimes even breathing is an activity against the state.”
Pyotr heard someone stir. It sent a ripple of fear through him. Idiot, he told himself. He had waited all night for a chance at Lev’s boots, and now he was frittering his opportunity away. Lev’s boots were made of real felt and still good, while his own were worn through. Gruishin used to tell new prisoners: “You need three things here: food, good boots, and to keep your mouth shut. Anything else and you’re free soon enough.” That’s what the old-timers called dying: going free.
It wasn’t easy pulling on Lev’s boots. Pyotr’s feet had gone numb with the cold. He knew he should stamp his feet, but he couldn’t risk it. Once they were on, he began to feel a stinging in his feet. A good sign, but he would have to be careful. He would have to switch Lev’s boots for his own. Every boot had to be accounted for. He scratched his head. Was there anything else of Lev’s he could use?
The crucifix.
God only knew how Lev had managed to hang onto it all these years. “For my son,” Lev had told him once. That day in the factory when little Sasha had gone after the Musselman with his knife. Crazy little zek. The guards had been furious. After they shot Sasha, they waded into the prisoners, beating them with iron bars, then left them chained outside in the snow. That was the night Big Pavlo, who had taken Sasha for a wife, couldn’t stop his tears and in the morning his eyes had been welded shut forever by the ice. Lev thought he was going to die that night. They all did. He and Pyotr had been chained together. “If I should die, get the crucifix to my son,” Lev had begged him, his teeth chattering like castanets. “Give it to the Armenian doctor, Ghazarian. When he comes on his monthly visit. Promise me.”
Pyotr had promised.
Pyotr reached for where he knew Lev kept the crucifix hidden in a chink in the wall near his bunk. At first he couldn’t find it, but then he felt it with his fingertips. It was a little silver thing, bent and tarnished, that could be cupped in the palm of your hand. He slipped it inside a pocket he had sewn in his underwear. For a moment he considered swapping it to the Adventist for a pack of cigarettes. It ought to be worth at least that, he thought. But then he felt ashamed. Lev had been a good fellow. One who would share part of his meal or a cup of tea with you if you needed it. And if he wanted it to go to his son, well that’s where it should go, Pyotr thought, stepping on one of the suki bitches sleeping on the concrete floor as he headed for the piss bucket.
He watched the steam rising from the stream of urine that began to freeze the instant it hit the piss ice. He would slip the crucifix to the Armenian doctor the next time he came, he decided, touching the fabric over it for luck.
A simple sort, this Pyotr, the CIA’s Office of Collection Strategies and Analysis would later conclude in an emergency PDB report to the President. What the Russians, after a few vodkas, like to call a “Russian soul.” He had no way of knowing that the decision he had just made would launch a crisis that within the CIA would be called the Agency’s “moment of truth” and would force the President of the United States to an action he would think about every day for the rest of his life.
Chapter Two
Ma’rib
Yemen
From the moment they came into Ma’rib, the American agent code-named Scorpion knew they were in trouble. There were tribesmen—Abidah, judging by the way they tied their shaal turbans and wore their curved jambiya knives—armed with AK-47s all along the main road. Men from AQAP—Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula—had intermarried with women of the Abidah and the two groups were now allied. The double was playing them, Scorpion thought. They were driving into a trap.
His driver, Jabir, felt it too.
“Fe Ma’rib kul agila wa kalabahu yahmeelu kalashnikov,” Jabir muttered. In Ma’rib every man and his dog carries a Kalashnikov.
Once, Ma’rib had been a tourist town where visitors came to see the ancient ruins in the sands. Thousands of years ago it had been the fabled city from which Balqis, Queen of Sheba, set forth with gold and frankincense to visit King Solomon. But now the onl
y foreigners were oilmen, come to pay baksheesh to al Qaeda, Scorpion thought as they turned into the narrow streets off the main road under the wary eyes of tribesmen on the rooftops. He hadn’t liked the mission when Peterman first told him about it, and he liked it even less now.
Scorpion had met Hollis Peterman in the back room of a restaurant on Hadda Street in Sana’a, Yemen’s capital. The restaurant was easy to spot, with its outer door painted blue to ward off the evil eye. Nearby, a dozen or so Yemeni men squatted in a patch of sidewalk shade chewing qat, the amphetamine-like green leaves that were the Yemeni national habit. Heading inside, Scorpion spotted one of the Yemenis wearing Oakley sunglasses under a shaal and tapping on an iPhone. The idiot should take out an ad, he thought, checking the walls and ceiling for cameras through the smoke from the shisha hubble-bubbles as he made his way to the back of the restaurant.
As soon as he entered the room, he began looking for bugs using a handheld electronic sweep unit. When he was sure it was clean, he sat down and waited while Peterman continued to text, as if to underscore to Scorpion how important he was. They were all like that at the CIA now, he thought. Supergeeks who thought they were smarter than anyone else.
When Peterman finally finished, he clapped his hands. A naadil padded in on bare feet, and Peterman told him in English to bring them saltah, a Yemeni stew, before turning to Scorpion.
“How was your flight?” he asked, putting on a professional smile. Peterman was a big man, fair-haired and solid-looking, but starting to go to fat.
It had been a while since Scorpion had been called upon to deal with the basic field ops level of the CIA. He didn’t have the patience for what CIA old hands liked to call the “usual kiss-kiss before you screw the poor bastard in the ass.”
“What’s on Rabinowich’s mind?” he bluntly asked Peterman.
Dave Rabinowich was a world-class musician, mathematician, and hands-down the best intelligence analyst in the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence. He was one of only two people in the entire U.S. intelligence community who could have gotten Scorpion to come to Yemen on such short notice.
The naadil knocked and came in with bowls of saltah and glasses of nabidh date juice. Neither man spoke until the naadil left and Scorpion had checked outside the door to make sure no one was listening.
“This isn’t Rabinowich’s deal,” Peterman said, shoveling in the stew with a scoop of malooga bread. “Try the saltah. It’s pretty good here.”
“Are you insane?!” Scorpion snapped, getting up and heading for the door. “The only reason I’m here is Rabinowich—and he’s not part of it? And tell that idiot outside pretending he’s one of the qat crowd not to follow me or I’ll send him back with his Oakleys shoved so far down his throat he’ll be shitting glass for a week. Enjoy your meal.”
“Wait!” Peterman gasped. “We need your help.”
“Is this one of Harris’s deals? Tell Harris to go f— Never mind, I don’t care what you tell him,” Scorpion said. Bob Harris was deputy director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, and he and Scorpion had had their run-ins. The last time, in Saint Petersburg, had been the worst. Now, Scorpion wanted no part of Harris’s operations.
As he opened the door to leave, Peterman said, “We have a double who says he can deliver Qasim bin Jameel.”
Scorpion hesitated. Bin Jameel was not only the leader of AQAP in Yemen, but at the moment the operational head of al Qaeda worldwide.
“No good,” he said, closing the door, coming over and taking his seat again. “You need someone local.”
“We had someone local. McElroy. One of our best. He’d been in-country three years.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Peterman said.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“He’s gone. Missing.”
“Missing, or you just haven’t found the body?” Scorpion asked.
Peterman’s face reddened. He didn’t answer. The two men looked at each other. From outside, Scorpion heard the loudspeaker call of the muezzin for the midday Dhuhr prayer. Don’t do it, something told him. There’s something wrong here.
“We can’t use local,” Peterman muttered.
Worse and worse, Scorpion thought. It meant the local CIA station might have been compromised. No wonder Rabinowich had sent him a message that included the emergency code: Biloxi. To some of the better brains in the CIA, Yemen was a bigger threat to the U.S. than Afghanistan, and it sounded like Alex Station—CIA-speak for the task force assigned to al Qaeda—was falling apart. He watched Peterman take a sip of nabidh juice. One of the CIA’s agents was missing—possibly being tortured at that second, Scorpion thought—and if someone didn’t fix it, they’d lose a dozen more. If he was any judge, this guy Peterman was in way over his head.
“What about an SAS?” Scorpion asked. Special Activities Staff teams were the CIA’s paramilitary units specifically designed to perform deep-penetration rescues, extractions, and other high-risk operations. Scorpion’s own first CIA assignment had been in SAS, whose teams were comprised of ex-Delta, Navy SEAL, or USMC Reconnaissance types who then underwent advanced training that made even those formidable special units look like choirboys.
“We don’t have the intel,” Peterman said bleakly, meaning they couldn’t use SAS because they had no idea where McElroy was or what had happened.
Neither man spoke then. It was salvage; the worst, highest risk type of mission.
Whatever you do, don’t do it for McElroy, Scorpion told himself. Even if he was alive, whatever was left of him wouldn’t be worth saving. Plus, AQAP would be sitting there, waiting for whoever came over the fence after him. The prize was bin Jameel. It was a little like buying a lottery ticket. You didn’t expect to win, but the payoff was so big, you didn’t want to kick yourself for not taking that one-in-a-hundred-million chance.
“What was McElroy’s op?” Scorpion said finally.
“Predators,” Peterman said.
The Predator drone, an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, was the Pentagon’s primary antiterrorist weapon. It could hover over a target for forty hours and fire Hellfire missiles from 25,000 to 35,000 feet high, too high to be seen or heard from the ground.
“The Hellfire is keyed to the cell phone’s GPS,” Peterman said, taking a cell phone out of his pocket and handing it to Scorpion. “Just have the guy press Send and leave it somewhere. They’ll have sixty seconds to get out.”
“And if the Predator has engine trouble or there’s a screwup somewhere?” Scorpion said, hesitating to use the word “leak.” At this point he had no way of knowing who or what was the problem. For all he knew, he was looking across the table at the problem.
“We’ll have two Predators on station; one for backup.”
“Did McElroy also have a cell for the Predator?”
Peterman reddened. The implication was obvious. It was his op and he had screwed it up. He nodded.
“Perfect,” Scorpion said.
But nothing about the RDV had gone down the way Peterman was supposed to have set it up. Jabir parked the Land Rover near the Ma’rib gun market, its canvas stalls filled with M-4s, AK-47s, and small pyramids of M67 hand grenades piled on old rugs. The safe house was a brick building a block from the market, its arched windows outlined, Yemeni style, in white. A half-dozen heavily armed tribesmen—Bani Khum, by the look of them—squatted near the building’s front door, their cheeks bulging like chipmunks with qat.
Scorpion studied the building. Next to the safe house was another brick apartment building, its roof about ten feet below the roof of the safe house. If he had to, he figured that would be the way out. He told Jabir to wait till he went in, then move the Land Rover across from the second building and keep the weapons ready and the engine running.
Ahmad al-Baiwani was waiting for Scorpion on the roof of the safe house with ginger coffee and bint al sahn honey cakes spread under a tarpaulin shade. A bearded, heavyset man, he wore an American
suit jacket over a traditional futa-style skirt and trousers, and the shaal turban of a qadi of the Bani Khum. As a qadi, or tribal leader, al-Baiwani was of the second highest social class, lower only than a sayyid, a descendent of the Prophet. Scorpion himself was disguised as a qabili, or ordinary tribesman, of the Murad. Speaking in fusha standard Arabic, after the usual elaborate pleasantries, Scorpion asked about “the American,” McElroy.
Al-Baiwani said he had never seen McElroy. No one had.
“You know of the hadith of Bukhari when the Prophet of Allah, rasul sallahu alayhi wassalam,” peace be upon him, Scorpion said, “spoke of the greatest of great sins and said, ‘I warn you against giving false witness,’ and kept repeating it over and over till his companions thought he would never stop.”
“What are you accusing me of?” al-Baiwani asked, glancing at his guards to make sure they were watching.
Before Scorpion could respond, he heard the sound of car doors slamming. He got up and looked over the side of the roof. Below he saw three black SUVs that hadn’t been there before. A number of armed AQAP tribesmen got out and headed toward the building door.
“Who’s coming?” he asked, putting his hand on the Glock 9mm hidden in his robe. Al-Baiwani’s guards tensed, not sure what to do.
“Your asayid Peterman said you wanted bin Jameel.” Al-Baiwani gestured as if to say, I gave you what you asked.
The al Qaeda leader himself, along with a bunch of his men, were on their way up. Scorpion took the cell phone out of his pocket, pressed the Send key, then slipped it under his cushion. He had sixty seconds before the Hellfire hit. He grabbed al-Baiwani, jamming the Glock against his side and whispered into his ear, “Ta’ala ma’ee.” Come with me. “We have forty-five seconds to get out or we’ll be dead.”
Al-Baiwani stared horrorstruck at Scorpion, his face showing that he understood about the Predator. The CIA had used them so often in Yemen that in AQAP camps and villages, anyone found carrying a cell phone could be summarily executed.
Scorpion Winter Page 1
