by Mark Greaney
“I thought Abboud would only arrive with his regular security detail. Twenty-five men or so. Normally when he comes, that is all. Yes, there are always more up at Port Sudan—they stay with his helicopter—but when he comes to Suakin, usually it is just the twenty-five guards.”
“So . . . what’s different this time?”
“The NSS arrived this afternoon.”
“The secret police are here?”
“Correct.”
“How many?” Court looked down to his hands. He picked at his fingernails.
“I saw five men.” Then the man in the shadows said, almost as an afterthought, “But there is a lot of military in town, also. You need to watch out for them.”
“What’s a lot?”
“A company, at least. Infantry.”
This made Gentry look up at the driver again. “Any idea why?”
“They say a group of rebels has been tracked to a farm outside of town.”
In an instant, Court knew the CIA operation had been compromised.
“Rebels?”
“Yes. SLA. It is strange. They have never operated this far to the east.”
“Any idea how many SLA?”
He waved an arm, his first gesticulation. “Not many. Just a dozen men or so.”
A dozen. Zack had initially promised one hundred, then cut that to thirty-five. Now Court’s most solid intel on the subject was that the real number was twelve. He didn’t blame Zack; surely if Sierra One knew his proxy fighters were such an impotent force, he wouldn’t have gone this far with the op. No, Court had seen this kind of deteriorating math before. He blamed the local CIA office, Sudan Station, for overpromising and underdelivering. There probably never were going to be a hundred SLA in Suakin; thirty-five was their best guess, and now it was clear that Sudan Station’s best guess sucked.
A dozen SLA, already compromised to the local authorities, weren’t going to fool anyone. If the attempt to kidnap the president went forward now, the army would roll up the pathetic little force of rebels in a matter of minutes.
Court could still assassinate the president for Greg Sidorenko, but kidnapping him for the CIA was out of the question without the rebel attack. It was obvious to Gentry now that Zack and his mission would be aborted.
“So I want more money to help you tomorrow.”
Court needed to talk to Zack before he even knew if there would be an op tomorrow. But he realized now he might just need Muhammed’s help in getting out of the area. If Nocturne Sapphire was dead in the dirt, then the CIA might want him to do Sid’s job and exfil as planned via FSB connections.
“I have two thousand euros.”
“I want ten.”
Court paused. It wasn’t his money, he couldn’t care less what this man was paid, but he’d been bargaining for one thing or another in the Third World for most of the past fifteen years, and he knew what he was doing.
He nodded. “Three now, three after.” Six grand was probably three times what this creepy bastard made in a year. Assuming the Russians had already agreed to pay him that much or more, this clown was making a serious chunk of change.
Mohammed looked at Gentry a long time. Finally he pulled the car back into the street and began driving. “Agreed.”
He and Court discussed arrangements for several minutes as the Mercedes inched around the town. Court tried to reconnoiter while they talked by looking out the grimy windows, but he could not make heads or tails of the confusing streets and dirt alleyways.
Finally Mohammed pulled over again. Court was surprised to find himself right where he’d been picked up a half hour before. The policeman said, “Tomorrow morning I will be at the agreed upon location at the agreed upon time. I will take you to a house in Khartoum where you can wait until it is safe to go to the airport.”
Gentry reached into his front pocket and pulled out a band-covered roll of euros. It was Sid’s money, of course; the CIA hadn’t given him any cash.
Court made it back to his overnight hide at eleven o’clock. He checked to make sure nothing in his packs had been disturbed, and he opened a tepid bottle of water and drank it down. Then he picked up the Hughes Thuraya and made a call.
Zack answered on the third ring. “Just getting some beauty sleep, Six; this better be good.” Hightower spoke sleepily.
“You need to abort Nocturne Sapphire. The rebels are compromised.”
When Hightower spoke again, he was wide awake. “Says who?”
“Says the FSB informant. He’s a local cop. A crew of NSS and a company of GOS infantry is in town because a dozen SLA were tracked here.”
“A dozen?”
“Roger that.”
“One dozen. One-two rebel fighters?”
“His intel seems solid.”
There was a long break. “Fucking Sudan Station.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Local CIA either exaggerated the shit out of the SLA’s ability to get men into the theater, or—”
“Or the SLA lied, fudged the numbers to get a pay-check from Uncle Sam. And then they go and get their bush-league asses compromised!”
“Fuckers.”
“Roger that.” Sierra One’s chuckle came out of Court’s phone. “Never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Sidorenko and his local contact.”
“Yeah, right? This could have been messy.”
“Let me call this in to Denny.”
“Tell him you need to abort.”
“Let’s see what he says.”
“Hit me back ASAP, One. I can still do the hit on Oryx; the opposition in the area won’t stop me from that.”
“Let’s see what Denny says,” Zack repeated.
Court’s overnight hide was, from an operational standpoint at least, a near perfect location to store his gear and lay up for the night. With both large rucks opened and the gear sorted and positioned for his fast access, he found a warm boulder large and flat enough for him to lie on. The gentle tickling of the lagoon’s waves against the shoreline rocks was peaceful and would help him rest when the time came.
He’d waited over an hour for the call back from Zack. It came after midnight, just as Gentry’s eyes shut and he nodded off to sleep.
He’d wired the satellite phone into his C4OPS system, so when the earpiece chirped in Court’s ear, he just pressed a button on the phone to send the call directly into the headset.
Gentry answered quickly. “Yeah?”
“Carmichael says go ahead.”
“With Sid’s hit on Abboud, right?”
“Negative. We stick with Nocturne Sapphire. Snatch Oryx and exfil over water.”
“How the hell can I snatch him with all the opposition in the—”
“Sudan Station doesn’t believe it. Thinks either it’s bullshit intel your source is feeding you, or bullshit intel you’re feeding us. And Carmichael is siding with the local station. We go ahead for now, discount this single source of yours, because local CIA says there are thirty-five SLA here, no reports of major NSS or GOS movements. The SLA say they will hit the square at oh six thirty-six tomorrow morning, no problems.”
“I’m not feeding anyone bullshit, Zack.”
“I know you’re not. Listen, Carmichael says I am cleared to make a game-time decision. I can knock it off at any point if it doesn’t look good tomorrow morning. He’s given me the go-ahead to be on site.”
“You’re going to be at the bank with me?”
“No, but we’ll be close by. He’s green-lighted Whiskey Sierra for direct action if the situation requires it.”
Court sucked in the moist air. “Seriously? You guys are going to shoot it out with the bodyguards and GOS troops? What happened to all that deniability bullshit? Why are you even using me in this if you have a green light to—”
“Court, Carmichael has his back to the wall. He’s made some promises that he has to keep by any means necessary. He’s promised the White House that we can hand Oryx over to the Euros. That means, basically, t
hat we have to hand Oryx over to the Euros. The future of the Special Operations Group rests on this op.”
“The future of my ass rests on this op. You promised this would come down to a few of Abboud’s bodyguards against one hundred rebel forces. Now it’s the bodyguards, a company of GOS troops, and an NSS contingent of unknown size, all against a couple of pickups full of untrained dipshits who’ve already been compromised!”
“I told you, Sudan Station doesn’t think they’ve been compromised. And even if they have, Whiskey Sierra will be the force multiplier. We’ll get it done.”
“This plan needs an enema, Zack.”
“Kid, back in the day, how many of all the Goon Squad’s ops went to plan?”
Court thought. Shrugged. “Can’t think of a one, but—”
“Exactly. This plan is the best we got, and if it all goes south on us, we’ll come up with something else on the fly. Just like always.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I will make note of your dissent, and I will place it in the ‘who the fuck cares what Court thinks’ file.” Zack laughed at himself. “What did I tell you back in the day, Six? You don’t have to like it—”
“You just have to do it,” Court finished the thought. He was pissed, but he was a beaten man on this. He’d do his job, and Hightower knew it.
“You want to get back in the fold? You stick with your part of Nocturne Sapphire. You will make Carmichael a very happy and very appreciative man. Don’t worry, dude. Whiskey Sierra will be around to help you through.”
After a long pause Gentry muttered, “Six out.”
THIRTY-TWO
Court awoke and looked down at his watch. Tiny bits of tritium gas-filled tubes illuminated the hands, told him it was time to get up.
It was four thirty in the morning; the air was cool with the ocean’s breeze. He rolled into a sitting position and filled his lungs.
He’d slept fitfully for a couple of hours at most. The operation ahead had kept him tossing and turning, his mind spinning with details and contingencies and with a multitude of if/then statements that he could not seem to reconcile. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t imagine this day being anything other than a massive cluster fuck. He felt like a train wreck was coming, he was on the train, and it was too late to jump off.
From the pack Zack had handed off to him the night before he retrieved a peanut butter Soldier Fuel bar, a vitamin and protein-fortified energy bar created by nutritionists in the U.S. Army. He opened the package and ate it quickly and efficiently, his game face hardening by the minute as the day’s operation approached. He washed it down with water from his CamelBak bladder.
Gentry crab-walked down the boulders to the water’s edge. As he relieved himself into the lagoon, he considered changing clothes into something more tactical, but decided against it. He’d love to have pants with more pockets—pockets were important to an operator—but his grungy, grimy, local attire—clothes that he’d hiked in, swam in, slept in, even ridden on a donkey cart in—just looked too authentic to eschew for something clean and alien to the environment.
He crawled over to his Russian backpack, the one provided to him by Sid. He hefted it over a shoulder and stepped into the cool black water of the lagoon. The heavy bag was watertight and built with an air chamber that would allow it to float, and Gentry hung on to it as he swam across.
Twenty minutes later, his head appeared at the top of the minaret on Old Suakin Island. He climbed into the gallery of the structure, the open room just under the crown at the top of the tower. Back when the island was alive and the mosque open, two hundred years ago at the most recent, from here the muezzin sang the adhan, the five times daily call to prayer. Now it was dormant and home to birds; Court’s arrival stirred pigeons from their sleep. They flitted off, but the noise and movement was no worry to Gentry. The cats around here certainly harassed the feathered creatures often enough to where a small group of them taking flight in the night would not raise the alarm. Court crawled carefully across the minaret, smearing fresh pigeon droppings with his knees and gloves, pulling his pack behind him. He was less concerned with being spotted and more concerned with the structure giving way, falling apart and falling down, taking him along with it. But it held, and Gentry unzipped his pack and pulled out the pieces of the Blaser sniper rifle and began assembling the weapon.
All of this was merely misdirection. He was not going to use the rifle, not going to snipe anyone today. This was all aimed at encouraging Sidorenko to believe the story that his top assassin had been compromised somehow and captured or killed outright by CIA assassins. When Abboud turned up alive, his shackled form on television from The Hague, Sid would wonder what happened to the hit man he’d sent to kill him. Carmichael had promised that Langley would let it be known that a SAD Paramilitary Operation’s team had finally caught up with their most wanted man, killed him dead on the coast of the Red Sea, just moments before he killed again.
Court had no way of knowing for sure if this ruse would work. Sid was no fool. But, Gentry decided, the more evidence he could plant on site that would indicate that he was, in fact, in place for the Abboud hit, the more likely Sidorenko and his people would get word that the leaked story matched with the physical traces of Gray’s last known location.
So the American took his time, laid out the scene exactly as he would if the sniping, in fact, were about to take place. The rifle was placed in position on its bipod, the scope cap was unsnapped, and the optics were ranged properly for a 400-meter shot in negligible winds. The gun was loaded, and extra cartridges were lined up neatly on his right-hand side.
Finally, when he was satisfied with his ruse, Court took one last look at his sniper’s hide. How easy it would have been for him to assassinate President Abboud, make his way to a speedboat at the far edge of the island, shoot hard and fast over the gentle Red Sea waters to an awaiting larger craft, and then churn away into international waters. Sure, the Sudanese had gunboats—he might get unlucky and run into one during his escape—but the odds of avoiding the Sudanese navy were likely a hell of a lot better than they were for the success of Nocturne Sapphire. Court shook his head slowly. A shitload of things beyond Court’s control needed to go very very right in the next few hours.
Gentry backed down the stairs. Out again on the predawn dirt roads of Old Suakin Island, he backed his way the three blocks to the water’s edge, ensuring that no tracks of one man coming and going were anywhere to be found. He hefted his much lighter pack and stepped back into the warm water. It was as placid as a swimming pool, though the brackish smell left little doubt that it was not chemically cleansed.
When he was neck deep, holding on to his floating pack with both hands, he looked back at the island. When his planted evidence was found, whether in hours or in days, he would be linked to the scene. It would appear to everyone that the assassin had made it to his sniper’s nest, set it up as per his requirements, and then lain in wait for his prey.
And then it would appear to everyone as if the sniper just simply vanished into thin air.
The Gray Man smiled darkly as he turned, gently kicked his feet, and began floating towards the shoreline one hundred meters away.
There wasn’t a soul on the dirt streets of New Suakin at five in the morning. First light was not for another hour, Oryx would not pass by for ninety minutes, but Court was already in position, tucked deep into shadows at the long, tin-roofed fish market that composed the southeastern corner of the square. With him was his CIA backpack, nearly fifty pounds of gear stowed inside. His satellite phone was attached to the left side of his belt under his loose-fitting shirt, wired into the C4OPS radio hooked alongside it. The wireless earpieces were tucked in both ears, and the thin rubber-and-wire tube lay flat on his cheek as it snaked down to his mouth, allowing the covert headset to be nearly invisible in the hair on his head and of his beard.
Under his shirt on his belt he carried his suppressed Glock 19 and two extra
magazines. Forty-six rounds of 9 mm ammunition in total. Not a lot for a battle, but this morning’s action was supposed to go on around him and not on top of him.
Still, he sure as hell would have liked some more firepower.
Court took his time to tune himself in to his environment. Loose camels roamed the streets; donkeys were in corrals or tied to wooden hitching posts. The town around him looked, quite literally, like something from biblical times, with the one big exception being the old, crumbling mosque in front of him. There were no mosques here in the time of Christ, but surely this particular view that he had, sitting at the open-air fishmonger’s stall, must not have changed one iota since the twelfth century. He imagined himself back in those days and wondered if some spy or assassin had crouched at this very place at this very time of morning, with nefarious designs on a target in that mosque or in that ancient-looking building across the square.
Only then did he notice the few anachronisms in the scene. Several donkey carts were in view, but all had thick rubber tires instead of ancient wooden cartwheels. Much of the metal roofing and siding of the shacks in view were rusted oil drums or even large tin coffee cans. A broken blue plastic bucket hung from a rope outside a second-story window.
Without warning a voice spoke, close. It startled him, and he grabbed for his pistol and rose, bumping his head on a loose wooden shelf above him in the shack before recognizing that the voice was Zack and that it had come through his headset. He knelt back down, mad at himself.
“Good morning, Six, wherever you are. Me and the boys are just finishing our second cup of coffee, then we’ll get geared up and head to shore.” The sound of a long stretch and a sigh. Obvious dramatic effect. “Damn. Sure as shit is nice working for the man, not running rogue, sitting scared by yourself in the dark somewhere, hoping like hell that rat running up your leg doesn’t bite you in the balls because you can’t afford to move and give away your position.”
Court looked down. There was no rat on his leg. He chastised himself for looking.
