by Dan Hampton
So Congress retaliated by closing bases and raping funding during their Quadrennial Defense Reviews. Another nail in the military coffin would suit some of them just fine.
“So I want you to find him. Now.”
Axe was getting a bad feeling about this. “Which one, general?”
Sturgis walked to his desk and picked up a blue folder. “Whichever one did this.” He took a single page from the folder and held it up. “This is a blanket authorization to utilize virtually any Air Force resources required to close this event.”
Close this event? Now what the hell did that mean? Do what has to be done as long as the problem goes away and the general is kept out of it?
Swell.
“You want me to hunt these guys down?” He sat back and stared at the general, not going down without a fight. “I thought that’s what the spooks were for.”
“Well, they’ll assist of course. And they have already. Just as you need their expertise to find these individuals they need yours to know where to look and whom to look for.”
Good God. Talk about needles and haystacks. Doug Truax shook his head slightly. Sturgis wanted a scapegoat, that’s what this meant. Someone’s head other than his own that he could dangle to the Air Staff when this mercenary disappeared into the mist. Axe could hear it now: “Well, I put Truax on it. Fighter pilot, Patchwearer, and the best I had. If he screwed it away, that’s not my fault.”
The general stood and so did Shipman and Lee. Axe looked up and saw they were all watching him expectantly. He belatedly got to his feet.
“You will report to Colonel Lee, and he will report to me.” Sturgis stretched himself up to his full, substandard height and was annoyed that he still had to look up at Axe.
“Questions?” he barked in a tone that didn’t require a reply. Nodding curtly, he then pivoted and stalked shortly out of the office.
Jolly blew out a long sigh and sunk back onto the couch. Major Shipman poured herself a cup of coffee and Axe tried to keep his head from spinning.
“Whaddya think?” Lee was wary. He knew Axe.
“What do I think? I think I’m the fall guy. I think I just got put on the cross so the Air Force doesn’t take the rap. I also think if you ever kick me again I’ll be mailing your foot back to you.”
Major Shipman leaned against the bookcase and said absolutely nothing.
Jolly smiled. “Just trying to keep you off the Rock,” he said, meaning Korea. “So get off your tail and find this guy.”
“Oh . . . okay.” Axe strode to the window and looked out. The color guard was gone. The greenskeepers had moved elsewhere and a momentary calm had settled over the brick buildings clustered around headquarters. It was called depression.
“I’ll just run right out and do that, Jolly.” He shook his head disgustedly. “This is a job for a cop or a spook, not a fighter pilot.”
“As it so happens, we’ve got someone just like that to help you out.”
“Great. Some slippery, hairy Neanderthal with six different passports to lead me on a global goose chase.”
“Actually”—Karen Shipman smiled for the first time and lifted her perfect ass off the shelf—“I only have two passports. And I shave my legs.”
He stared at her a moment and she met his gaze calmly. Lee waved and left.
“Okay,” Axe popped the top on a Coke and sat down on the stone picnic table. They’d walked down to the marina and he and the major were facing each other across the table. “So what do we have here, and why you?”
Major Karen Shipman was used to male hostility. Despite slogans, Equal Opportunity, and all the other silly military programs designed to change centuries of attitudes overnight, it hadn’t really happened. And the funny thing was that she agreed with most of the old notions. The military was, by its nature, a man’s world. Combat was a nasty physical event, and males were better designed for it in most cases.
Things began to unravel when technical leaps allowed machines to do what used to be done with muscle. Then it became brains that were important, not physical strength, bravery, or the athleticism that marked past generations of warriors. This was the twenty-first century in a nutshell. Face it, if Bill Gates had been born in the middle ages, he wouldn’t have survived past adolescence. Wrong set of talents and skills. As it was, he was the richest man in the world.
“I guess someone thinks I can help,” she sipped her Coke noncommittally. Doug Truax wasn’t hostile but he wasn’t exactly friendly either. “Maybe I can even learn something from you, sir.”
“Cut the crap, Major.” He looked at her and she could see he wasn’t buying it. A man not interested in flattery. Interesting. “Answer the question.”
“It was the general’s call. I suppose he thinks I’m useful.”
“No doubt of that.”
Karen’s head came up. That was one thing that did get to her. The implication that all successful women screwed their way to the top.
“I resent that, Colonel,” she snapped. “My brain matches my tits.”
“Gray and soft?”
“You know damn well that’s not what I mean.”
“You’ve got two brains?”
This man was infuriating. “If your dick was as big as your mouth I’d be looking forward to this assignment.”
Ouch.
Hit a guy where he lives. Dickie Gozenya didn’t care for that remark. Now, normally majors did not speak to lieutenant colonels that way. But Karen Shipman was a field-grade officer too, a woman, and she’d been specially appointed by the three-star prick in charge. Axe couldn’t decide whether to put her in her place or ask her out to dinner. So instead he grinned.
“Okay . . . pax. Means peace.” Try some charm instead.
“Sane lingua Latina dico.”
Whoops. Axe grinned again. Latin too. She wasn’t kidding about the brain.
“Look, Colonel . . . I didn’t ask for the job.” Axe wasn’t sure about that. “But I’ve never failed yet and I don’t intend to start now.” That was certainly true. Shipman was gathering steam. “Now if you’d stop staring at my ass maybe we could get to work.”
Caught. Perception and brains. A truly evil woman.
But enough was enough. “Sit down and shut up.” He straightened up and stabbed a finger at her. She bristled but Axe rolled on. “You ever talk to me that way again, we’ve got a problem not even your three-star sponsor can bail you out of.”
Several other patrons turned curiously and he lowered his voice. “I’ve no doubt you’re a competent officer in your own field but this is not making PowerPoint slides or ordering invitations for a general’s party.”
She sat and opened her mouth but Axe waved her off. “If I’ve got to roam around the damn planet tracking this guy down I can do it. I’ve done it before,” he added surprisingly. “But I can’t do it with an amateur trailing around behind me.”
“I am not an amateur.” Ms. Major Karen Shipman turned a nifty shade of red right at the cheekbones when she got angry. “I was DIA for three and a half years.”
Hmm. Defense Intelligence Agency. The military equivalent of the CIA. Usually not as subtle though, the bad haircuts gave them away. Still . . .
“What field?”
“Economics and—”
“Shit.” Axe threw up his hands. “This is not cocktails at the Officer’s Club, Major. Nor is it a classroom at Bolling Air Force Base.” Bolling was the DIA Analysis Center outside Washington. “You’re an amateur in this game.”
“What game is that, sir?” She leaned over the table and stared at him with those beautiful green eyes. “Drinking and swearing and playing Crud? Singing ‘Sammy Small’ or ‘Swing Low’?”
Whoa. What kind of respectable field-grade chick knew about those little ditties? Or the most excellent and sublime game of Crud? Must’ve been shagged hard
by a fighter pilot or two. Axe gazed at her with new appreciation. She was either more versatile than he’d given her credit for or a world-class fighter-pilot groupie. Either way it was an improvement over Miss Major Tightass.
“As I was saying”—Karen Shipman’s cheeks flushed again—“and Collections. Advanced Technology.”
Whoops. A field agent. No one ever said agent, so it was simply collections.
“Enough.” His voice got its edge back at last and the major closed her prim little mouth. “Then you should be able help track down these guys.”
“That is exactly what the general had in mind for me,” she replied a bit tartly.
I’ll bet, Axe thought. He stared at Major Shipman, and she stared right back. She had an almost bemused expression on her face that was irritating and sexy all at once. But he took a deep breath and forced his thoughts away from her straining buttons. DIA would have access to most of the spook universe. Money trails, electronic tracers . . . the works. Finding the mercenary maybe just got a whole lot easier.
Chapter 7
Leaving his hotel just after breakfast, the Sandman walked out into the forecourt of the InterContinental. This was a rectangle with one long arm open and facing the street. The other three sides contained shops beneath covered arcades that ran along the ground floor.
Given that its clientele were wealthy Arabs and similarly wealthy foreigners, the InterContinental took security seriously. No vehicles could approach closer than 100 feet and this dead space was pleasantly disguised by fountains and orderly rows of date palms. Heavy concrete barriers had been cast into strangely artistic shapes and were cleverly hidden along all approaches that a bomb-laden automobile might take. Because of this, a designated taxi lane was set up just off the street. There were always a few cabs waiting and, if not, men would materialize from the shadows and hail one from the busy street.
The Old City was a pleasant place, filled with expensive shops and shady, tree-lined alleys that kept most of the traffic noise at bay. Seemingly out for a morning walk, one more elegantly dressed man attracted no attention. Following Abu Meshad Street as it curved north, the mercenary paused occasionally to window-shop. Appearing to admire the array of fine clothiers, he was, in fact, watching reflections in the glass. Not just the street, but vehicles and people. Occupied parked cars, men loitering on benches, or anything out of the ordinary.
Stepping into a shoe shop, he spent a half hour browsing the displays and keeping the front of the store in sight. But no one passed. No one entered or looked in the window and when he emerged, there were no familiar forms or faces.
He had no reason to be suspicious and this was normal for him. A habit. A habit that had kept him alive and free. In truth, the Mukhabarat, the secret police, were a great deal more subtle. Pitted against Israel’s Mossad for fifty years, they were too professional to be caught making obvious mistakes. In any event, there was no reason why he should have come to the attention of the Jordanian authorities. But there were others—the Chinese or Israelis, for instance.
Several hundred yards farther he came to the cream-colored, spiraling tower of the Le Royal Amman Hotel. Crossing the street, the Sandman entered a side door to the soaring lobby atrium. It was like standing on the keel of a ship and looking up. Gleaming hardwood floors gave a faint reddish tinge to the white sandstone walls, and every few feet, comfortable wicker chairs created a small oasis for weary guests. The heavy masonry gave way on the upper floors to graceful columns and immense, clerestory windows.
Strolling unhurriedly through the lobby, he returned a deferential nod from the doorman at the main entrance. In his dark Italian suit and burgundy Hermes tie, the mercenary appeared to be simply another affluent guest.
“Taxi, sil vous plait.”
“Ouay, monsieur.” The valet’s accent was atrocious but the point was to be remembered as a French guest of the hotel. “Where do you wish, sir?”
“Shemeisani District, please. Vite.”
“But certainly!”
The Sandman slid across the backseat so he was directly behind the driver. It was harder for the cabbie to see him and any suspicious movements would be well telegraphed. But the driver just smiled broadly and said, “Good morning,” in the sharp Palestinian dialect of Jordan.
Stretching an arm across the backseat, the mercenary casually turned to look back as the cab pulled out onto Zahran Street, did a prompt U-turn into oncoming traffic, and headed west. As usual, the barely controlled mayhem of Arab drivers was worth watching. With no concept of queuing, little patience for rules, and absolutely no tolerance for their fellow drivers, it was always an experience. Add to it the famous Arab fatalism of insh’allah—“God wills it”—and the whole trip became a moving game of Russian roulette.
“Where arr you to be go?” The cab driver asked him in horrible English.
“Parle tu francais?”
“Eh?”
“Do you speak any French?” the mercenary repeated in French-accented Arabic. The other man’s eyes cleared and he smiled. “No . . . no French. But your Arabic is very good.”
Understanding him perfectly, the Sandman nevertheless replied, “I am sorry. Please speak slower.”
“But of course. Where . . . do . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . go?”
“Ah.” He nodded and beamed back at the man. “Shemeisani District, please. Al Ameer Garden.”
“Ten minutes and we will be there. You are French?”
“No. Canadian.”
“Ah. I have a brother living in Montreal.” He smiled again, showing stained and broken teeth. “Much better than America.”
That was an ironic statement, the mercenary thought, since the cab was northbound on Queen Noor Street. Queen Noor, born Lisa Halaby, was from Connecticut.
Several minutes later, after some honking and weaving, the cab pulled off Bin Zeid Street and headed into the quieter area of the financial district. Large cream-colored stone villas sat back from the street. Each had some sort of fence, usually heavy black wrought iron, and lots of landscaping. Jordanian city dwellers loved bright pink and blue flowers and they sprang up everywhere on balconies and window ledges. Most of the villas had thick glass entryways covering massive wooden doors.
“Anywhere in here is good,” he said as they approached the park. Pulling a few Jordanian dinars from his pocket he passed them over the seat and the driver nodded. Most of the cabbies who worked the big hotels moonlighted for the GID, the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate. The Sandman had no doubt his drop-off would be duly reported, which was precisely why he picked a public garden in one of the busiest sections of Amman.
Standing by the curb, he admired the scenery until the cab disappeared, then walked up Al Khouri Street away from the park. He occasionally stopped to window-shop or chat with a vendor. His clothing and colloquial Arabic marked him as a Middle Eastern businessman. Non-Muslim foreigners, even wealthy ones, were treated differently. If possible, they were politely ignored by upper-class Arabs and continuously harassed by the rest. Merchants automatically doubled their prices and panhandlers attached themselves like sweaty, smelly shadows.
Old men sat in the shade of awnings or under umbrellas on the sidewalk cafés. Some of them had been here before Palestine had become Israel and Jordan was little more than a British territory. They’d seen the Six Day War, Yom Kippur and both Gulf Wars. They’d seen their king successfully straddle the fence and transform Amman into the “New Beirut.” Dusty
robes were exchanged for suits and ties, horses and bicycles for Mercedes and SUVs, the prayer calls of the muezzin competing with the incessant twittering of cell phones.
Stout middle-aged men ambled along the thoroughfares, sometimes talking and gesturing on their phones, sometimes followed by a family several steps behind. Some wore suits or open collars beneath sports jackets. Others wore the red-and-white headdress of the Hashemites.
Then there were the young men. Prowling bands of skinny sharks cruising on foot or in cars. Black slacks with white shirts proliferated, and dark wraparound sunglasses were back in vogue. They looked at women, talked about them, and certainly thought of little else. But unlike the West, unless the female was a fourth world worker or a particularly brazen tourist they were rarely confronted. The men and boys frequently held hands as well—something never seen in the West outside of a gay district. And through it all foreigners and tourists gawked, snapped pictures and spent money.
Boutiques lined the wide street and the Sandman continued his aimless shopping like any other wealthy tourist.
He was not.
He was snapshotting. The flat, gray eyes behind the dark glasses scanned faces in the crowd and filed them in short-term memory. He took random turnings down side streets or suddenly stopped at street vendors. He changed sides of the street and, seemingly interested a window display, studied those behind him. Anyone loitering, anyone who stayed in one place, anyone who stopped when he did.
But there was no one.
A government would often keep tabs on wealthy foreigners who made repeat visits. Most were businessmen conducting legitimate and boring business. Some were tourists or wealthy expatriates who simply liked to travel. But there were also drug traffickers, intelligence agents, and arms dealers. There were also mercenaries.
The Sandman was certain his true profession was effectively masked to all but a few. But one never knew. All it would take would be a chance sighting by an old acquaintance or a suspicious, traceable money trail. Others in his strange brotherhood had been brought down by a small detail and never seen again.
