Curtis still burned about being lectured by the director of the Diplomatic Security Service, who had snapped and threatened consequences if Curtis ever again attempted to use the DSS for his own purposes. Curtis had kept calm during the tirade, although his stomach had churned. Prison? Abuse of power? The man carried a pistol in a shoulder holster and made certain that Curtis had seen it.
Bill Curtis had carefully explained that he had acted fully within the law, as stated in the Patriot Act, and in his official capacity. Any citizen could be investigated on a whiff of suspicion of terrorist activity. No proof was needed. Beth Ledford had been acting very suspiciously, even disobeying direct orders in a politically charged situation that fell within the interests of the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs. Her interference could further impede the already weak diplomatic relations with Pakistan.
That grain of truth had saved him, along with a contrite admission that he had overstepped his authority by ordering the full surveillance of the Coast Guard woman. Curtis promised never to do so again. The DSS man had not wanted the involvement of his own office exposed any further and chose to drop the matter. The book was closed with the security service, and Curtis would not reopen it. It was well that the man had not known the other half of the story.
He had arranged for the DSS only to track Ledford around the Washington area. For the direct attacks on Swanson and at Quantico, Curtis had turned to his contacts within a renegade element of the private security community, but the mercenaries had failed, and two of them had been killed. After that, the private firm was no longer interested in the job, no matter what the pay.
Curtis drank the sharp whisky and felt the burn go down into his stomach. So am I alone in this now? No. I have powerful friends all over the Middle East, many more than the U.S. government knew, and those friends have friends in the United States. Some would be more than willing to help track down this loose end. Unsaid was that Curtis, as the head of the BAIA, had granted favors before, and would do so again. No. All was not lost. This was just a temporary setback, and he would never be alone.
He emptied the glass, washed it in the sink, and set it on a towel to dry.
Curtis climbed into bed, turned out the light, and again weighed the entwined issues carefully: revenge against the possible charge of treason, and protecting the most wanted man in the world.
Before turning off the light, he picked up a framed colored photograph from his nightstand and set it up on a pillow beside him, as if the paper images could look back at him, maybe even talk. It showed a beautiful, young Iraqi woman with flowing ebony hair and penetrating eyes, clad in ski clothes and seated in a comfortable chair beside a roaring fire in a lodge in Aspen, Colorado. At her feet was a grinning boy who had inherited his mother’s good looks. He was missing a tooth. Bill Curtis had taken the photograph while the family was celebrating the child’s fifth birthday. He drifted off to sleep with the picture still propped up beside him.
Curtis had met Raneen at a garden party in Baghdad in the old days, when he was running an oil exploration operation for the Iraqi government and spent a lot of time there. Life had been quiet and enjoyable in the big polyglot city during those times, because Saddam Hussein kept religious extremists on a tight leash. Raneen was the daughter of one of the dictator’s reluctant generals, a professional soldier, and it took Curtis months of careful maneuvering to win the family over enough that he could marry his dark-eyed beauty. A year later, they had a child, a boy, and they named him named Cane. Life was golden, and stayed that way until 1990, when that fool Hussein decided to invade Kuwait.
Curtis was in Taiwan on business, and his family was visiting the grandparents in Baghdad. They were caught on opposite sides of a sudden and vicious war, and for the first time, Raneen and Cane were beyond his reach. When American bombs struck Baghdad, one landed squarely on the general’s home, killing the entire family, including both Raneen and their son. The picture on the pillow was all that was left, and Bill Curtis cherished it.
THE BRIDGE
THE SEARCH OF THE wide valley below the bridge did not find the madman who had single-handedly wiped out the entire patrol of Taliban fighters, leaving four men dead and two more wounded. Only the ISI soldier who led the group had escaped the attack unharmed.
Sergeant Hafiz had taken command and organized the hunt all the way down to the fallen steel bridge, clearing it grid square by grid square on his map, but found nothing. He was disgusted with the Taliban. Not only were they poor soldiers, but after learning what happened to their comrades, some of the others were spreading a story of how an evil monster that dwelled in the darkness was chasing them. Hafiz would never be able to trust them. Real troops were needed to secure the area so he could send these mountain men back to their rocky wastelands. He sent out a replacement patrol but desperately wanted regulars here, now.
As dawn approached, a cleaning worker found Chief Engineer Mohammad al-Attas sound asleep in the bed of his underground apartment, still wearing the bloodstained clothes from his night of rampage. Sergeant Hafiz brought in three other large men and slapped al-Attas hard across the face, snapping his head to one side. The engineer awoke to a streak of pain, a scream ripping from his throat as he was snatched from the bed and roughly carried back to the infirmary, where he was lashed again to the metal rails of a bed with thick restraints.
“What are you doing to me? What is happening?” he yelled. The men left the medical center, and Hafiz appeared. “Sergeant… What is going on? Why am I being treated like this?”
Hafiz brought a chair forward and sat beside him, quietly studying him as if trying to see who was really inside the shell of flesh and bone. The face and other exposed areas were all covered in dried mud, which stuck in clumps between the toes and proved he was the Djinn. The eyes, however, were startlingly clear and free of guile, indicating that he was also the engineer. The split between the two personalities was sharp and complete. “Who are you?” the sergeant asked in a conversational tone.
“You know very well: Chief Engineer Mohammad al-Attas. Let me go. I demand that you set me free and explain yourself.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible right now. Where were you last night? What did you do?”
Al-Attas struggled against the restraints, which squeaked with the strain but held him firmly in place. “I was asleep, you fool. That is why I was in bed when your men assaulted me.”
A long period of silence stretched between them before Hafiz said, “You really don’t know, do you? Look down at your clothes, Chief Engineer. Tell me where all of that blood came from.”
Al-Attas managed to lift his head to stare down at his chest and legs. Huge caked splotches of maroon covered the long shirt, which was filthy. He could feel the stiffness of the dried blood on his skin. “What has happened? Was I in some kind of accident? I remember nothing like that. Am I going to be all right?”
Hafiz had heard enough; he pushed back the chair and stood up, crossing his arms. “I doubt it.” He pushed a button on an electrical cord, and a doctor came to the bed. “Give him a sedative to calm him, and keep him hydrated. I don’t want him completely unconscious, because I have more questions. Others will need to see him. Tend to this personally, Doctor. Then have him cleaned up and lock him back down tight.”
“Yes. I understand,” said the doctor, a small man with a well-trimmed beard. “Please leave a guard in the room with us.”
“Of course.”
“Why are you doing this? Why have I been taken prisoner?” The face of the man on the bed was twisted in confusion, and tears tracked down the sides of his face. He was sobbing like a baby, his body shaking in growing despair.
The doctor busied himself at a cabinet, tearing open a plastic bag to prepare a sterile syringe.
Sergeant Hafiz had moved to the foot of the bed. “I know you cannot understand this, Chief Engineer, but the reason that you are being restrained and kept under guard is very simple—you are one of the most danger
ous men I have ever met. You are a ruthless and merciless and ingenious killer. Now go back to sleep while I decide what to do with you.”
“No!” The shout was hard and came from deep within. “No! I am the chief engineer! I am in charge here!”
“Not any longer, my friend. Now you’re just one more piece of paperwork for me.” He grabbed al-Attas by the left arm and held it steady while the doctor swabbed the skin clean with alcohol, found a vein, and worked the needle in. Within a few seconds, the heart distributed the strong liquid throughout the body, and al-Attas’s eyelids fluttered, then closed as the body went limp.
“I’ll send in the guard,” Hafiz said and left, looking at his wristwatch on the way through the door. Time was short, and he had work to do.
Al-Attas was not only a fiend but had been a well-protected one during the long months while the bridge and the complex of tunnels were constructed. Hafiz would not summarily dispose of him without first getting permission from General Gul of the ISI, a routing of messages that would take hours. Eventually, the result would be the same, a bullet in the head, but Hafiz wanted the execution order in writing before he murdered this peculiar genius. Otherwise, his own head might also be on a pike.
Even with all of that in progress, the advance team from the camp of Commander Kahn would be arriving within a few hours to inspect the facility, and Hafiz would provide the full tour. He understood that the inspectors would question the presence and condition of al-Attas in the infirmary. It would be best to simply tell the truth, including that the death warrant was in progress. The man had been crazy long before Hafiz ever arrived at the bridge. It wasn’t the sergeant’s fault. Better to prove that the lunatic was in custody by simply showing him off like an exhibit and letting the inspectors confirm his actions. The man was weak, tied down, drugged, and harmless.
Hafiz anticipated a pressure-filled few days of face-to-face meetings but was confident that the inspectors would approve the overall project. He would report that all of the important work was on schedule. The Commander could transfer to his new home before the first snows fell and closed the high passes.
16
“TIME TO GEAR UP, boys and girls.” Master Gunny Double-Oh Dawkins was at a long table in a large hangar in the special ops area of Kandahar, and his deep voice echoed in the emptiness. The table was strewn with equipment, each piece neatly arranged in its own space after he had double-checked every item. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Sybelle Summers grinned at the boyish enthusiasm of the big man, who would have preferred to be heading into action himself rather than consigned to the supporting role as jumpmaster. She took over the briefing. “Less than a dozen people know what’s happening tonight, and six of us are standing here. Because of the leaks back in the States, everything has been kept mission specific and names have not been used. There’s nothing in the system. So, let me introduce the two gentlemen who will be doing the flying for us. We will just refer to them by their family names, Major and Captain.”
Both of the slender men nodded. They wore standard olive green flight suits, with no identification patches. “Sir Jeff, who is bankrolling this little adventure, helped keep things outside of the U.S. information chain by getting us that slick ride over there, and its pilot team. These guys are from 47 Squadron, the special ops flight of the Royal Air Force. Each is a former fighter pilot who now specializes in flying low, fast or slow, and at night. Questions?”
Kyle acknowledged the fliers. “Good by me. Nobody flies for 47 Squadron by accident.” When there were no further questions, the pilots left the little group and went to the plane to start the preflight checks.
“Neither of them knows details of the mission. Only that they are to fly to exact coordinates and slow down enough for you to jump, then return to Kandahar, take on fuel, and go right back to their RAF base in Lyneham, England. Enough about that.” Summers kicked the explanations back to Double-Oh.
“For the jump, I decided to go with equipment that Coastie is familiar with,” he said.
“Coastie?” Beth arched an eyebrow. “That’s my code name?”
“No. It’s what we called you behind your back when we didn’t know you. Now we say it to your face, because we like you. You got a problem with that?”
“No. I guess you have to call me something, and Marines are not big on creativity. Coastie it is.”
“Anyway, instead of the new T-11, we will use the older T-10 chute that she learned on. Straight rig, parabolic canopy, and a twenty-foot static line.”
“I’ve done the T-11,” she said. “I could handle it. A jump is a jump.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Coastie.” Dawkins glared at her. “Remember, I’m the jumpmaster. You just listen.”
“Touchy, aren’t we?”
“Damn. Anyway, you’ll thank me later because the T-11 would require a couple of more seconds of free fall, and you won’t have much airspace to begin with. It would be helpful if you did not hit the ground before your parachute opened.”
“I’m light as a feather. You would fall faster than me, you big lump.” She knew that she almost had him grinding his teeth.
Summers broke in. “Quit teasing, Coastie. Get serious and listen.”
“Now. Weapons and gear. Although you’re both snipers, there is no need for a long rifle on this little job. So you each will have a sidearm and a CAR-15 with retractable butt stock and two hundred and ten rounds of ammo. Kyle’s has an M-203 grenade launcher, with a vest of seven high-explosive-dual purpose rounds. A few hand grenades, sat phones, some extra ammo, three days of MREs, video and still cameras, binos, maps, GPS, compass, protractors. Not a combat load, but you are not there for a gunfight. Questions? Nothing?”
Sybelle handed them plastic-covered maps. “You go in at zero-one, with this plateau at the end of the valley as your drop zone. Then you will be on the ground for twenty-four hours. Patrol up the valley and find a hide before dawn.” She pointed to a red circle on the map, then handed over a photograph of a field that seemed relatively flat. “See what you can see during the day, then finish up at dark and make your way to this landing zone. We’ll pick you up there at exactly oh one hundred. Two alternate LZs are marked. Got it?”
“How old is that download?” Kyle asked.
“About five hours,” Sybelle answered. “Our boy the Lizard back in Washington will be laying all kinds of havoc on the electromagnetic fields in the area, and he’s already throwing spoofs and flyovers throughout the region to draw attention away from the bridge. They may be defending, but they will not be expecting you, and even if they were, they probably would not be able to see your plane. You two just focus on the mission. Leave the rest to us.”
Beth Ledford realized that all three of the Marines were looking at her, as if she were going to break under the building pressure of going into a dangerous clandestine mission. She took a step to the table and picked up her pack, then pulled a Snickers candy bar from a jacket pocket and stuffed it in among the bullets. “Emergency chocolate ration,” she said. “Now I’m ready. Let’s go.”
* * *
THE THREE PRATT & WHITNEY Canada PW307A engines kicked the Dassault Falcon 7X off of the apron and into the night sky without a strain, although with enough power to push the three passengers against their seats. The plane seemed to climb almost straight up to thirty thousand feet before leveling off and settling into a gentle cruising speed of five hundred miles per hour. Up front in the cockpit, Major and Captain constantly monitored the Honeywell Primus EPIC avionics suite, but the fly-by-wire aircraft was basically running on its own.
Cousins of the smooth Falcon tri-jet were plying the skies over peaceful countries as fifty-million-dollar luxury long-range business jets, but this one had been converted for special operations, and creature comfort was low on the list of priorities. The six-foot-two cabin ceiling prevented Double-Oh from standing erect. He had to hunch over.
The ride to the target area seemed
short to Beth, but then Double-Oh was shaking her shoulder. She had been asleep. He looked at her curiously, then tapped his round black bubble helmet. “Get ready, Coastie,” he said.
Swanson was already on his feet, rocking comfortably with the motion of the plane, his face hidden behind the clear plastic mask. A one-pound bottle of oxygen was beneath the right arm of his olive coveralls, with a hose feeding the cool air into the closed jump helmet. The parachute pack was on his back, a day pack around his waist, and the weapons were in a drop bag between his legs.
Looks like he’s done this before, thought Beth as she struggled with her own bulky equipment, sucking in the clean oxygen and huffing it out again. The plane was tilted, coming down to seven thousand feet and shaving off speed.
Double-Oh listened to a verbal radio message from the cockpit and held up a palm toward them, all fingers extended. Five minutes.
Beth waddled into place behind Kyle, using her hands to adjust the shoulder straps. She leaned around him to see Double-Oh squatting beside the door, motioning to his face to make certain they were on oxygen as the cabin depressurized. Two fingers were held up. Two minutes.
Normally, the hatch on the Dassault would fold outward and become a stairway. With the modifications, it would come inside. Double-Oh, secured by a safety harness, unlocked it, grabbed the rails with his beefy hands, and pulled it free, then stashed it behind him. He held up one finger. One minute. Both responded with a thumbs-up.
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