Operator Down

by Brad Taylor

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He thinks everyone is out to get him. He doesn’t trust his own men, so he definitely won’t trust you.”

  “Fucking great.”

  “It won’t matter. He’s going to hide during the entire thing. He’s not brave enough to take charge of the operation. You probably won’t even see him until it’s over. Anyway, a month ago he planned a cover trip for seven to ‘visit South African Special Forces,’ something that now looks natural and would be odd to change. I thought you’d want the six team leaders instead of splitting that in half with drivers.”

  Johan slowly nodded, then said, “Getting on the ground is critical. We fuck that up and nothing else matters.”

  “You’ll have the lead driver. It’ll work out.”

  Johan said, “I guess we’ll see tonight.”

  “Have you decided on assignments for our guys?”

  “Yeah. My team’s taking the television station.”

  Armstrong squinted his eyes and said, “That’s the easiest target. I figured you’d be on the prime minister. He’s the center of gravity.”

  Johan said, “I need to be able to control the overall operation. It’s centrally located to all the other objectives, and I won’t get tied down in a gunfight. I can flex as a reserve if I need to. Someone’s got to be the ground-force commander, and with you staying airborne, that leaves me.”

  Armstrong nodded and said, “Okay, okay. I wasn’t implying anything. What did you give Andy?”

  Johan smiled and said, “He’s got the police station. Toughest target.”

  Armstrong nodded and said, “He’ll like that. So you’re prepared to go tomorrow night?”

  “Barring some disaster at tonight’s rehearsal, or something catastrophic at our planning session with the African SF guys, yeah, we will. Are we good on the safe house in Lesotho? I don’t want to land and be asked where I want to go.”

  Armstrong laughed and said, “Yeah, we’re good. Tyler got us a compound. Some bed-and-breakfast with five rooms. We own it all.”

  “A bed-and-breakfast? You’re kidding me.”

  “No, it’s some rustic place out near the king’s residence. A village called Morija.”

  “The king? Are you serious? You’re putting us near that sort of security?”

  “He lives about seven kilometers away, in another town. It’s through the mountains, and it’s rustic. Trust me, there won’t be a threat. It’s better than a hotel in the city. At least you can plan, out in the mountains.”

  “What do we do if he tries to stop us? I don’t mean tactically, like we run into his security. I mean strategically, like he comes out against us before we consolidate control. The people love him.”

  “He’s not allowed to. It’s in their constitution. The king can’t interfere with the government. We saw that in 2014, with the half coup that started this whole mess. He sat on the sidelines the entire time, letting the ministers of parliament and the military sort it out. All he’s going to want is peace, and he’ll get it with your operation. In twenty-four hours it’ll be over, and he’ll stay at the residence the entire time, with his men on high alert to protect him. He’s not going to venture out to stop anything, and when it’s over, he’ll see the writing on the wall. He’ll state the coup was for the best, and something like ‘why can’t we just get along?’ The people do love him, and that’s going to work in our favor.”

  Johan said, “I hope you’re right.”

  Armstrong said, “I am. I’ve put a lot of work into this.”

  Johan nodded, saying, “Tyler got the safe house? We couldn’t get it on our own?”

  “He was offering the total package, and he’s operated on the continent quite a bit. Why would I want to sacrifice profits doing the work ourselves?”

  “Because it means less chance of something getting fucked up, that’s why. You trust him that much?”

  “I trust his greed. He wants to get paid, and he won’t screw anything up before that occurs.”

  “Yeah, you keep mentioning that he’s fronting this whole thing, so what’s he getting out of it? It’s not money. Cohen’s paying us flat cash, but he isn’t for Tyler, or he wouldn’t be donating all this shit for free.”

  Armstrong saw the men coming off the drop zone and said, “I told you, it’s not your concern. Time to get busy. The Lesotho men are waiting in the barracks.”

  Before Johan could question him again, Armstrong shouted, “Andy, I saw that ass slide! Not what I remember from the Recces.”

  Andy jogged up and laughed, saying, “I wanted to get closest to the mark. Didn’t work out.”

  He slapped Johan on the arm and said, “Still trying to beat this guy.”

  Armstrong smiled, saying, “Everyone’s been trying to beat Johan for years.”

  Johan did not return the smile. He said, “But I always come out on top.” He looked at Armstrong, thinking about his reluctance to discuss Tyler’s payment. He didn’t like being kept in the dark. It smacked of being used.

  He said, “Don’t I, Colonel?”

  Armstrong hooded his eyes, and Johan turned to Andy, saying, “Load up the men. We’ve got some planning to do with the locals.”

  52

  I was afraid the plastic chair I was in was going to break, which would definitely draw attention to me. That would be fine if I was trying to win some money on a reality television show, but it was decidedly the last thing I needed here. I hopped one chair over and scooted my bowl of gruel to me. Something called “bunny chow,” it was basically a hollowed-out piece of bread full of bean curry and mutton. It looked as gross as hell but was actually pretty tasty.

  I heard Brett on the radio: “Gaining a little weight there, commando?”

  “No. The chair was split on one side. Anyone heavier than a five-year-old is risking an adventure.”

  Shoshana broke in: “Maybe you should skip the bowl of fat.”

  I said, “Enough about the food. Do we have three-sixty coverage of this place now?”

  The café itself had no walls but was situated in the middle of the market, with tables and chairs like a food court in an American mall or airport.

  Brett said, “I’ve got the entrance and the northern side.”

  Shoshana said, “Koko and I have the south blocked and can see clean through to the northern entrance.”

  I said, “Okay, I’ve got the west and can also see through to the east, so the surveillance is good. All that’s open is an east exit.”

  Shoshana said, “You want Koko and me to split up?”

  “No. Not with the threat readout Koko gave us. Stay in place together. Someone accosting either of you will only bring trouble. We’ll sort it out with what we’ve got.”

  We’d caught a nine A.M. flight out of Cape Town to Durban, packing everything we had and hastily finding hotel rooms in the new city. We knew Stanko was flying as well but had no idea how. He could have beaten us using a private aircraft—which Tyler was more than able to pay for—or he could have ended up on our flight.

  He wasn’t, but with upward of seven flights a day, it could have been at any time.

  We’d landed, rented a couple of Land Rovers, checked in to our hotel, and contacted the Taskforce—and they had news.

  Stanko had talked to Eshan and had set up a meeting with him at four P.M. today, at a restaurant called the Queen Victoria Gourmet Café, in the heart of something called the Victoria Street Market.

  The conversation was strained, even reading it in black-and-white from a transcript, with Eshan wanting a public meeting and Stanko demanding privacy. It told me Eshan wasn’t as stupid as the other target Stanko had killed. This one knew the danger of working his side of the fence.

  Stanko had threatened withholding payment, and Eshan had countered by questioning why he was afraid to meet publicly,
which deflated Stanko’s argument. There was no reason not to, if all you were going to do was pay for services rendered. Stanko had relented and said he was on the way, landing at three, which meant he left after us, because it was only a two-hour flight.

  Jennifer had done her due diligence with research, something she was a little bit of a freak at, and had learned that the Victoria Street Market was an enormous rat warren of Indian immigrants selling everything from spices to African masks, all under one gigantic roof. It turned out that Durban had the largest Indian population of any city on earth—outside of India—and way back when, they’d built this market when they’d been excluded from the city center because of their heritage.

  In the modern world it had blossomed into no less than nine different markets, spanning city blocks, at a place called Warwick Junction, and had become both a local place to shop and a tourist stop—if you were in a group with a guide.

  According to Jennifer, crime was rampant, and single females were easy prey. Jennifer said predators loved the place and it was routinely rated as unsafe, with pickpockets and worse prowling around, which was why I’d had Jennifer and Shoshana pair up.

  Our females weren’t, of course, easy prey, but I couldn’t afford either of them becoming involved with teaching a pickpocket that his chosen choice of employment held significant risks, which meant I either paired them up with Brett and me, leaving me a team short, or I paired them together.

  I opted for the latter, figuring Shoshana’s glare would scare the hell out of anyone thinking of attempting anything.

  We’d entered the market at 1530, giving us thirty minutes of leeway, and found it just as advertised: narrow alleys lined with stalls, all selling seemingly the same cheap-ass tourist knickknacks.

  We’d split up, searching for the café, and Brett had found it, then vectored us in. Now I was eating a bowl of bunny food as we waited, checking out everyone who entered.

  I’d almost finished my bread bowl when Brett came on, saying, “Ivan’s in the net, I say again, Ivan’s in the net. Northern entrance. Just went by me.”

  Stanko was the only target we had whom we could recognize, so he was key to locating the contact. I casually turned my head and saw him enter, still dressed uncomfortably like a shady businessman, although with that usual Eastern European “Boris” vibe. The only thing he needed to complete the vision was a fedora and an overcoat with the collar turned up.

  He sat in the center of the café, not bothering to order anything from the counter, his head constantly swiveling around. Eventually, a man who had been at the café before we’d entered stood up, surprising me. An Indian guy, tall and thin, with a gangly walk that reminded me of a stork. I’d assumed the contact would be African.

  He settled in to the table, and I clicked on the net, saying, “Target seated. Acknowledge.”

  I got a couple of “Rogers” and said, “Anyone with a camera angle?”

  Jennifer said, “I got it. Clean view.”

  I kept my eye on the meeting, saying, “Okay, when this breaks up, we follow Mowgli. Let Ivan go.”

  Brett said, “This naming convention is becoming borderline inappropriate.”

  I said, “Well, we’re in the business of being inappropriate.”

  I watched them talk, then saw the conversation get animated, with Mowgli leaning forward and waving his arms around. Clearly, he wasn’t happy.

  Shoshana came on, saying, “I think Ivan’s trying to get him to leave. He didn’t bring the money.”

  I said, “I think you’re right. Get ready.”

  Eventually, Mowgli nodded, and Stanko leaned back, saying something. They both rose and left. To the fucking east.

  I said, “Get on them. Get on them. I can’t get there.”

  Shoshana said, “We have them. They’re entering the market.”

  Brett said, “I’m one row over.”

  I stood and ran to the far side, saying, “He isn’t going to pay; he’s looking for a place to kill that guy. Don’t give him any space.”

  I heard Shoshana say, “I’ve lost him. I’ve lost him,” then: “Pike, this is Koko. I’m breaking off. Going parallel.”

  I said, “Roger that. Everyone, we’re okay, we’re okay. He isn’t going to murder him in the mall.”

  Brett said, “Pike, there are plenty of places in here to kill the guy.”

  Which was true. I said, “Anyone have eyes on?”

  I got nothing back.

  53

  Kurt Hale walked up the steps of the Old Executive Office Building with George Wolffe, his deputy commander. Fresh off of leave, Wolffe was wondering what shit storm he was entering. He said, “So, you’ve got Pike chasing a thread that has nothing to do with terrorism, but you think it does? Is that what you’re going to brief?”

  Kurt said, “Yep.”

  “And he’s been freelancing all over Africa based on your actions in Las Vegas? Do I have that right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  George said, “Why the hell do I ever go on leave? Every time I do, you dig us into a shit sandwich.”

  Kurt opened the door and smiled, saying, “This time, we have the intel community on our side.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I might just be right for once.”

  They walked to the room chosen for the Oversight Council meeting—which changed every single time they met, a product of being off the books—and turned in their cell phones. They entered a small conference room, seeing the usual suspects gathered around. Secretary of state, secretary of defense, director of the CIA, and all the other Oversight Council members.

  They drew a small murmur when they entered, but nobody approached, not wanting to get tainted with whatever Kurt was going to brief. Talking beforehand might be construed as support. Better to just sit back and wait to see what happened.

  Only one man made eye contact with Kurt: Kerry Bostwick, the head of the CIA. He simply nodded, which told Kurt all he needed to know.

  Kurt took his seat, shuffling his papers in front of him while George took a seat in the back.

  The light above the door flashed, saying it was unclear, and the president entered. The room rose, and he said, “Sit down.” He turned to Kurt and said, “I hate to be a broken record, but we need to get this done quickly.”

  The one thing Kurt liked about President Hannister was that he made an effort to attend every single Oversight Council meeting, unlike his predecessor. The one thing he hated was that every time he did, he demanded the meeting be short because he was trying to cram it in between other state functions. President Warren—the man who’d created the Taskforce—understood the implications of action and attended only when he felt it necessary, which had caused heartburn with Kurt in the past when the Council devolved into a bunch of shouting. President Hannister had decided that he would attend every single one, but in so doing, he forced the meetings into a box that was smaller than necessary for the conversation.

  Kurt wasn’t sure which approach was better.

  He stood and said, “If it’s to be quick, then I’ll cut to the meat. We need to get Omega authority for Tyler Malloy. He’s about to gain nuclear triggers and sell them to a terrorist organization.”

  Kurt saw the room draw back, all but Kerry Bostwick, his ace in the hole.

  President Hannister said, “Last time you briefed, you had a thread in Cape Town. Are you saying it’s been proven by Taskforce activity?”

  “No, sir. Not by Taskforce. We’ve continued Alpha—and are still pursuing the same—but we didn’t get conclusive proof with our operations. We did, however, get proof from combining intelligence through all-source collection, and we believe the threat is real.”

  He flashed the first PowerPoint slide, showing the conversation Pike had obtained at the Castle of Good Hope. He said, “As you can see, at a me
eting with Tyler Malloy, these men are discussing an assault of some kind. We don’t know what the assault is, but we do know, from Pike’s penetration of the warehouse, that it’s real. They’re going to attack something.”

  He flipped the slide and pointed at the transcript on the screen. “Tyler Malloy is aggravated about not getting paid, and the man in the room—Mr. Smith—describes that he was involved in Project Circle.”

  He turned back to the room and said, “Project Circle was the South African nuclear program. They built six bombs before they dismantled the entire program, and Tyler Malloy wants something from it.”

  Alexander Palmer said, “So, what, you want to take him out because of a conversation? It sounds to me like we should be alerting State about this crap, not conducting rendition operations on foreign soil.”

  Secretary of State Amanda Kroft said, “I’m game with that. We can stop this through diplomatic means. It would take one phone call.”

  Kurt said, “No, I don’t think so. The man known as Mr. Smith is high up in the South African military. We don’t know how far this goes. You alert them through diplomatic means and the whole thing falls apart. He’ll get away.”

  She said, “But we stop it.”

  Kurt said, “For now. I want to stop it forever.”

  Palmer said, “But you have no proof of anything other than this recording. All you have is a mention of Project Circle. Hell, he could be getting paid in scrap iron for all we know.”

  Kurt said, “I would agree with you, but we’ve come upon some corroborating intelligence. Kerry, you want to weigh in?”

  The room looked at the D/CIA, and he said, “Sir, in general collection of potential threats, we caught a conversation between Hassan Kantar and an unknown American. Hassan is a known member of Hezbollah, and he’s in the pocket of Iran. He’s also discussing Project Circle.”