Cold Shot: A Novel

by Henshaw, Mark

  She knew the flight time by heart. Caracas. She’d tried to keep the old memories out of her thoughts and failed for the most part, and the old anxiety had been rising inside her stomach all morning. Kyra ran her hand across her left arm and felt the scar that ran along the triceps. It was no thin line. The bullet had ripped through the skin and muscle there, taking much of both with it as it had passed out the other side. She hadn’t even felt it at the moment. The adrenaline had been rushing through her, killing the pain then like the Vicodin had done for months after. Now it was a numb mass of scar tissue, visible from feet away whenever it was left uncovered. She always wore long shirts now, even in the humid Virginia summer. It was easier to explain that fashion choice away to her parents than to try excusing how she’d acquired that mutilation.

  She had been trying to ignore the telephone on the entry table most of the evening as she packed her travel bag and secured the house. There was nothing left to do now, no good excuse for procrastinating about the call and the phone would not be denied any longer. Kyra picked up the receiver and dialed, hoping no one would pick up. She sat in silence while the call went through. She’d thought her mother would be home at this hour, but Kyra’s wish was granted as a voice-mail system told her to leave her message.

  “Hi, Mom, it’s me,” she said. And like that, it was time to lie. “My boss asked me to take a trip overseas today. We’re having trouble with one of the software packages we’re developing. The bug is in some code written by a foreign contractor and they’re just not getting it fixed, so I have to go straighten things out. It’s a mess and we’re on a deadline. So I’m heading out for the airport and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  And the lie was done. Kyra hated it. Sarah Stryker was a kind soul who didn’t deserve to have her only child deceive her, and Kyra had been doing it for almost three years now.

  She paused for a moment. She could almost hear her mother, as though the woman were on the phone speaking to her. The entire message didn’t have to be a lie, she thought, but now she would have to tell the truth and that would hurt the other woman more than the lie she’d already told. “I know you wanted me to come down for a visit and try talking to Dad again this weekend. I think it’s still too soon after what happened over Christmas . . . probably would just do more harm than good if I did come, but I won’t be around this weekend anyway. Thanks for trying to help. Maybe when I get back. I’ll call you in a few days. I love you. Bye.”

  Kyra hung up the phone, rolled her bag out onto the front step, and closed the door behind her. She started to lock the dead bolt when she heard the phone on the entry table inside begin to ring. She stopped for a second, then finished locking the door, seized her luggage and walked down the stairs toward her truck, the phone calling behind her.

  DAY THREE

  Puerto Cabello

  Carabobo, Venezuela

  75 km west of Caracas

  The Markarid sat unmoving under the stars, her engines finally cold. Elham had pushed the ship hard over the last day and Avila had arranged for the ship to jump the queue, allowing her to make up a few hours of the lost time and leave some angry captains anchored out in the Atlantic past their schedule times. They would have to wait. Their cargoes of machinery and foodstuffs were trivial.

  Hossein Ahmadi stared up at the vessel, seeing her for the first time in weeks. He had seen her like this once before, when she had put to sea from the docks at Bandare ‘Abbas. She looked no different now but for the gash ripped into her island superstructure and the new paint on sections of the hull and tower. He cursed the Somali pirates again.

  “That is quite the hole.” Ahmadi turned and saw Andrés Carreño approaching from behind. The director of the SEBIN walked ten feet ahead of the armed soldiers under his command. Carreño dressed like a businessman. The troops behind wore the usual tactical gear that made Special Forces of the world so hard for Ahmadi to distinguish one from another.

  “An unfortunate incident in the Gulf of Aden,” Ahmadi admitted. He offered no other details.

  “Pirates?” Carreño asked, pressing the matter.

  “Yes,” Ahmadi said. A few times since that raid he’d wished that he’d put the gun to the Somalis personally. But their leader received what he wanted in the end, now, didn’t he? the Iranian thought. For that, he was pleased with himself. The manner of the man’s execution had entailed a certain irony.

  “My apologies that your men had to remain aboard all day after docking. President Avila felt that it would be more secure to start the unloading process after dark.”

  “Likely right,” Ahmadi admitted.

  The ramp was in place and Ahmadi saw a man descending in the dark. He recognized Sargord Elham in the dirty light cast by the dockside lamps. The man was dressed not in his fatigues but in more casual clothes typical of a cargo ship’s crew. Wise of him, Ahmadi thought.

  “Dr. Ahmadi,” Elham said, finally within earshot.

  “Sargord. I received your report. My congratulations on your trip.”

  “Thank you. I have nothing new to report in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Very good,” Ahmadi said. He turned to the Venezuelan at his side. “Director Carreño, I present Sargord Heidar Elham of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. It was his unit that dealt with our . . . incident and safely delivered the vessel to your port.”

  “Welcome to Venezuela, and my congratulations, Sargord,” Carreño said, offering the soldier his hand. “We have accommodations for your men at a secured location. Doubtless they’re anxious for some food and companionship?”

  “That would be much appreciated,” Elham replied. “But we have four men who should receive medical attention. They fell ill after our intervention in the Gulf. They appear to have recovered, but given the circumstances a thorough physical is in order.”

  “Not at a public hospital,” Ahmadi countered. “Director, I presume that you have doctors who can be trusted?”

  “We do. I’ll have one join us at the facility after our arrival.”

  “Our thanks. The pirates in the Gulf that the sargord skillfully dispatched managed to find the cargo before he could board. The casings were breached,” Ahmadi said. He looked to his countryman. “Were there any further problems with that?”

  “No,” Elham replied. “But it was necessary to keep the forward hold sealed for the duration and we skipped some port calls to avoid any unplanned inspections.”

  “Understandable,” Ahmadi assured him. “Someone will need to repair the containers before they can be unloaded. I regret, Señor Carreño, that your longshoremen would be the logical choice.”

  The intelligence officer frowned at the declaration. “My men?”

  “Of course,” Ahmadi said. “The sargord’s men are not engineers and the crew needs to be returned to Tehran immediately for debriefing and . . . isolation. They were not told of the cargo’s nature and we need to make sure they don’t endanger our operational security. We will need welders and other men with specialized tools and skills. We never expected any such need and so didn’t bring either the men or tools aboard.”

  “You could have brought them on your flight,” Carreño observed.

  “To do so would have invited more scrutiny,” Ahmadi countered.

  Carreño grunted, then shook his head. “No, we have no cleared men with those skills here. And conditions below could be dangerous—”

  “Then I suggest you resolve those problems quickly,” Ahmadi said, impatient.

  Carreño bristled. “We are equals in this arrangement, not your subordinates. My men are no more expendable than yours.”

  “Of course . . . but your men are here. The equipment is here. We are already behind schedule and you know that timing is everything in this enterprise. It would take several days at least to bring men and materials over from our country and every movement risks
drawing unwanted attention. And besides, this will give your countrymen the honor of unloading perhaps the most important cargo to ever come to your shores. I’m sure Presidente Avila would agree with me.”

  Carreño gritted his teeth and stepped closer to Ahmadi, anger drawn on his face. “This is not acceptable, Doctor,” the SEBIN director said.

  “And yet the schedule and security requirements demand it,” Ahmadi replied calmly. “Please, feel free to call el presidente directly on this matter.” His attempt at a Spanish accent was horrid.

  “I will speak to him,” Carreño said, his voice cold.

  “I look forward to the conversation. But since you will doubtless need some hours to round up men and tools, I think we could at least begin unloading the legitimate cargo from the other holds if your people are ready,” Ahmadi offered.

  “The head longshoreman has already been aboard,” Carreño said. He looked back toward the ship, not trying to hide his disgust. “He tells me it will take most of the night to clear a path to the forward hold anyway. The way your soldiers had to rearrange the containers on the deck to minimize anyone’s view of that”—he pointed toward the tarp hanging from the island—“will slow them down.”

  “Then you will have the time you need to take care of the other arrangements.” Ahmadi smiled. “You see, Director? Everything will come off as needed and your efforts will be much appreciated when this is all over. Now, please have your men secure the vessel.” He looked to his fellow Iranian. “Sargord, please inform your men that their housing is being arranged, then join me at my car. We should discuss the voyage.”

  Elham nodded, then turned and began to climb the boarding ramp. Ahmadi smiled at Carreño and walked toward his car. The Venezuelan stared at the Markarid, angry, and then waved at his men. A small team moved to the boarding ramp and followed Elham up. The remaining soldiers began to fan out across the dock.

  Simón Bolívar International Airport

  Maiquetía, Venezuela

  “Si se opone la naturaleza, lucharemos contra ella y la haremos que nos obedezca.”

  If nature opposes us, we will struggle against her and make her obey us.

  Kyra had not understood why Simón Bolívar would make such a grandiose statement until she had seen the mountains here for the first time. Now, for the second time in her life, Kyra watched the Venezuelan coastal range erupt behind the Caracas beaches to her left as the Boeing 737-900 descended. This was a hard country from top to bottom, beautiful and brutal at the same time in so many places. With cliffs like those running across the northern border, it was little wonder the natives might feel that nature itself wasn’t a friend.

  The flight had been long enough to be uncomfortable, more so for Kyra than for Jon. She’d made this flight once before and knew the travel time, but it seemed so much longer and shorter all at once. She could hardly remember leaving the country the first time. She’d been shot days before that plane ride and painkillers in high doses played with the memory.

  The airport bordered the Atlantic and the Boeing flew low over the water, reaching the tarmac only a few seconds after finally going “feet dry.” Kyra and Jon deplaned and walked to customs where a Venezuelan military officer stood by the customs door leading into the airport proper, an AK-103 assault rifle in his hands suspended from a sling. Kyra tried not to stare, and instead turned her attention inward, curious about her own reaction to the sight. She had expected to feel anger. Instead, she felt numb.

  The customs officer handed over her passport, offering no greeting, no ¡Bienvenidos a Venezuela! which she wouldn’t have appreciated anyway. She hated this country now.

  Jonathan passed through the line behind her, speaking surprisingly good Spanish—he’d never said anything about a facility with the language. She wondered if he spoke others and what other skills he’d failed to advertise.

  The Agency’s Central Travel Office had arranged a car and the gas was cheap. She did the conversion in her head. Twelve cents to the gallon. Kyra’s international driver’s license was as fake as her passport, but that hardly mattered here. Venezuelan traffic laws were entirely theoretical. They existed but no one obeyed them and they were never enforced without some ulterior motive behind the traffic stop. The government had suspended a total of one driver’s license in the last ten years.

  She didn’t need a map to find the embassy, which was another reason Jon was willing to give up the wheel. The Avenida La Armada led to a freeway, the Autopista Caracas–La Guaira, which curled through the ridges northwest of the city. Traffic was a mess; Kyra had expected nothing less and figured the drive would take the usual hour instead of the forty-five minutes she’d hoped for.

  She took the off-ramp onto the Autopista Francisco Fajardo, and saw the artificial Guaire River snaking under the elevated highway. The buildings, even the graffiti, looked suddenly familiar.

  She had faced the double agent on the bank of that river right . . . there.

  The rusty bridge where the man stood that night was still in place over the muddy water, the bushes that covered the raid teams were still a nasty tangle, unmanaged and uncut. The streetlight where she’d started to run was still standing. She wondered if it still worked.

  Kyra was surprised at how calm she felt, no shakes, no racing heartbeat. She felt so . . . detached? That was the word. Detached from that moment, like she could look at it all clinically now. The alley she had turned down for cover seemed closer to the bridge now than it had in the dark . . . but she must have been shot before she made it that far. Maybe there? . . . at the dead-end space before the alley, where she’d knocked that first soldier onto his back—

  “Eyes up,” Jonathan said. Kyra looked up and realized she was drifting left into the guardrail. She gently straightened out and veered back into the lane, no jerking of the wheel.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She meant it, not that Jonathan would have known had she been lying. He was looking at her, intensely she realized, but reading personal cues was not his forte.

  Kyra didn’t look in the rearview mirror. She’d seen the site. It held nothing for her.

  • • •

  The U.S. Embassy compound sat in the center-east of the capital city, built on a twenty-seven acre rise in the Colinas de Valle Arriba neighborhood, overlooking the Las Mercedes shopping district a half mile below in the valley. The embassy itself was five stories, red granite with walls that caved in and out of the front at oblique angles like the architect had lost his ruler and resorted to a drafting triangle instead. Kyra had found it strange when she’d first seen it years ago, but had come to appreciate the design—

  “That is the ugliest building I have ever seen,” Jonathan said. “And they put it on a hill.”

  “It’s all hills here, Jon.”

  “And the rum here must be excellent, judging by the architecture.”

  “It is, actually,” Kyra admitted. She turned off the road to the parking lot in front of the building and began searching for a parking space. The cars were all American-made, a strange sight given the Fiats, Peugeots, Renaults, and Haimas they’d seen on the freeway.

  “Had your share the last time you were here, did you?”

  “The water isn’t always safe to drink,” Kyra told him.

  “Convenient.”

  “I thought so,” she agreed, smirking.

  “So who’s the station chief now?” Jon asked.

  “No idea,” Kyra replied. “I heard they cleaned house after Michael Rhead got pulled out last year.”

  “Which brought you no small satisfaction, I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t cry for him,” she said. She got out of the car and started walking for the front gate, where the Marine guards stood waiting to check their IDs. “Follow me,” she ordered.

  Jonathan obeyed, which was a rare thing.

  • • �
��

  Like third-world warlords, station chiefs could be happy tyrants who ruled with a fist and a smile and made subordinates take on the most menial tasks. So Kyra was surprised when they were asked to wait at the embassy lobby so the station chief could come down from her office to escort them herself. They found a padded bench and spent the time staring at the walls.

  They sat in place for ten minutes. Kyra was staring at President Rostow’s official photograph when she heard the footsteps on the tile floor. Then she felt her partner tense up in a way she’d never seen.

  “Hi, Jon,” Marisa Mills said.

  • • •

  Marisa Mills was a severe exception to the unwritten rule that chiefs of station were supposed to be nondescript. She was a tall woman with brown hair that fell to her shoulders and looks that probably drew slander about how she earned her assignments. Kyra watched Jon as pleasantries were stiffly exchanged and he seemed impervious to the woman’s charm, but social graces had never been his strong point.

  Not impervious, she concluded. Active resistance. No, that wasn’t right.

  Anger. Jon was trying to cover it and failing.

  Kyra was sure that Mills knew it. The older woman seemed uncomfortable, intensely so. She was making an effort to be friendly to Jon, but the woman was proceeding with caution.

  The trio marched through the embassy to the elevators and passed the ride up in silence. When the doors opened, Mills took the lead. Kyra stepped off, Jon trailing, and the last eighteen months of her life washed away in an instant. Back again, she thought. Kyra knew every turn, one turn after another with no hesitation in her steps.

  Jon said nothing as Mills led them through the halls. Kyra wanted to ask him about Mills, how they knew each other, but the other woman was too close and would’ve heard any such question.