“How’s Lois?” Shafer kept the names of wives in his Rolodex, an old trick.
Ryker laughed low and ugly. Everything about him made sense now. Shafer had better update his index cards. People kept dying. Shafer wondered how he’d do as a widower. Probably no better than Ryker. Maybe worse.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Why would you? It’s not like we were friends.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“No. Instead let me tell you why I agreed to see you, knowing that you’re going to ask me to give up something classified, something I shouldn’t tell you, or why else would you have driven all the way out here on four hours’ notice?”
“Sure.”
“Because who cares?”
Maybe this isn’t the time, Shafer almost said. But he kept his mouth shut. He needed to know about Daood. Ryker was his best bet. So he flagged a waitress and ordered a Bud Light and popcorn chicken and told Ryker he was looking for a guy who might be an occasional and might have been running drugs, too.
“A hundred guys fit that profile,” Ryker said. “More. You want to tell me why you need this one?”
“No.”
“That’s all you have? You have a name?”
“A first name. Daood. Though I’m not sure how to spell it.”
Ryker sucked down his appletini and licked his lips. “I am. D-A-O-O-D. Last name Maktani. Daood Maktani. Though he prefers to call himself David Miller.” Just that quick, something woke up in Ryker’s face. For the first time all night, he looked to Shafer like a case officer instead of a man waiting for the clock to run out. “Half the desk knew his name. No OPSEC on an asshat like him. One of those guys. Running drugs out of Pakistan the whole damn time. Didn’t even try to hide it, really. The DEA bitched at us for using him, but they used him, too. He was a smart guy and he gave us just enough that we kept him around, but nobody liked him.”
“Tell me about it.”
So Ryker did.
15
KANDAHAR AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
T
he Drone Home, aka the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Center, occupied a couple acres on the south side of the Kandahar runway. A high-security fence backed with green netting hid hangars and concrete workshops from prying eyes. Inside, Air Force mechanics and CIA engineers and General Dynamics contractors worked on the drones so crucial to the Afghan war. The Predators and Reapers were well-known. Less so the agency’s newest baby, the “Beast of Kandahar.”
The Beast was a miniature single-wing plane that looked like a hobbyist’s model of a B-2 stealth bomber. It didn’t carry weapons. It was designed solely for surveillance, the stealthiest plane ever built. It was invisible to radar or the naked eye from more than a couple hundred yards away. It carried ground-penetrating radar and color cameras sensitive enough to distinguish eye color from a thousand feet up. It had spent hundreds of hours in the air above Osama bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad. Neither bin Laden nor the Pakistani military had ever guessed at its presence.
Now the agency was trying to add microphones to the Beast. Picking up voices from an aircraft circling hundreds or thousands of feet in the air was a monumental technical challenge. But the payoff would be just as big. The CIA would hear the other side’s plans in real time. And it would make fewer targeting errors, a euphemism for civilian deaths.
Francesca, who was waiting for his buddy Stan in the parking lot outside the Drone Home, knew all about the Beast. He and Alders did most of their work in the border areas where the drones were busiest. To reduce the chance that he’d be mistaken for a Talib, Francesca carried a transponder. When on, it emitted an electronic signature identifying him as American. He’d been briefed on what to do if the transponder failed. The advice basically boiled down to, Get out of the hot zone as quickly as you can, because you don’t want to be on the incoming end of a Hellfire.
The briefings had come from an Air Force colonel. Francesca had never met any of the guys who actually piloted the drones. He wondered about them. From what he’d heard, they were mostly contractors in their twenties and thirties, some ex-military, some civilian. Were they normals, or Shadows like him? Did they see the red mist when they closed their eyes?
Probably not. Probably they pushed a button when their bosses gave them the okay. A few seconds later, they watched a house disappear on-screen in a little puff of smoke. Like a video game. Shift work. When they were done, they drove home from Nellis AFB to their families in the Vegas suburbs. Without their toys and their satellite links, they were nothing. They hadn’t earned any of the power they’d been given, hadn’t paid for it in any way. Did they think they were tough? They were nothing, and he’d gladly show them—
The front gate opened, pulling him out of his homicidal reverie. Stan walked out and slid into the pickup’s passenger seat and they rolled off. No rush. The roads at KAF were dirt and gravel, and traffic was heavy. Francesca had no idea what all these inside-the-wire dudes did, but driving around the base seemed to be a big part of it.
“My man. My man Afghani-stan.” Of course, Francesca knew Stan’s real name. But he liked the alias. It was pretty funny.
“Danny. Long time no see.” They bumped fists. Neither was the hugging type.
“What’s going on in there?”
“At the home of the drones? The usual. GD promises that for just a few hundred million more they can give the Beast ass-wiping functionality. They did a PowerPoint and everything.”
“If technology could win guerrilla wars, we would have ended this nonsense a long time ago.”
“Yeah, I suspect you’re not going out of business anytime soon. Bang, bang, you’re dead.” Stan sighed. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last two. His hair had gone from jet-black to mostly gray. He’d lost weight, too. Of course, he had good reason.
“You look good, my friend,” Francesca said.
“That’s a lie.”
“Come on. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. The Brits have a new girl working the counter.” KAF had a half dozen privately staffed coffeehouses. By common agreement, the British had the best-tasting drinks, and the best-looking staff.
“Wish I could, but I have to meet the J-2”—the intelligence chief for all military operations in Kandahar—“at noon. And I ought to be there on time.”
“Aren’t you fancy?”
“You tell me to come down and see you, I need an excuse. Meeting the J-2’s a pretty good excuse. So no crap. Let’s just take a spin around the perimeter, put the windows down, breathe our fill of that Kandahar dust. ’Cause I’m glad you called. I have something to tell you, too.”
UNTIL NOW, Francesca had kept Ricky Fowler’s killing to himself. He figured Weston and Rodriguez had their platoon under control. Stan had enough to worry about. But with this douche Coleman Young making trouble, he figured he had to tell.
“My Strykers may have a problem,” Francesca explained.
“Wish you’d told me before,” Stan said, when he was finished.
“Didn’t want to bother you.”
“Didn’t want to mess up the gravy train, you mean. This guy Fowler, anybody actively looking into his death?”
“Weston says no.”
“You believe him.”
“I do. Weston even called Fowler’s mom and dad, talked to them for a while, told them what a great guy their son was. Checking to see if he would get any vibe from them that they were making noise, calling the battalion to complain that they didn’t understand what had happened. Because Fowler was real close with his folks. But Weston said when he was done, he was sure they weren’t doing anything like that.”
“I’m glad he checked.”
“Didn’t really surprise me.” In Francesca’s experience, the families of the dead went one way or the other. Some wanted to know every last detail, to understand, whatever that meant, get closure, whatever that meant. But mos
t, especially the Southerners and Texans and the ones from small towns, they didn’t want to know. They figured that all the questions in the world weren’t going to bring their kids or husbands back. They accepted whatever story the military told them.
“So the family’s no problem. And the sergeant, Young, hasn’t gone to CID or the battalion chaplain or anybody else?”
“Not as far as Weston knows, and I think he’d hear. Either formally or somebody would tap him on the shoulder and tell him, ‘Watch out.’”
“So it’s just these letters Coleman sent, or claims he sent. Protecting himself.”
“Correct. After it happened, I told Weston to make Young a deal, send him here for the rest of the tour. But Young said no. Fowler was his buddy. It’s like he’s too scared to do anything about it, but he can’t let it go either.”
“I can see that.”
“But since then, Weston called me, asked me if I’d take care of it.”
“Not very sporting of them.”
Every so often, Stan got on with that kind of nonsense, like he was the second coming of James Bond. “They think I can do it, no muss, no fuss.”
“Can you?”
“Obviously I can’t use my rifle. Would look a little strange if an American soldier got taken down with a .50 cal. I’ll have to get a Dragunov from somewhere—”
“I can handle that.” The Dragunov was a long-range Russian rifle that Taliban snipers favored.
“You can?”
“I think so.”
“That would be handy. Sooner you set it up, the better. No way will I be as accurate on it as on the Barrett. But it would help to have a couple chances to practice. Plus Young’s going to be wearing Kevlar and a helmet every time he goes outside the wire. Inside, too, for all I know. Weston said he’s being real careful. And I’m only gonna get one shot. I miss, he goes running to his battalion commander, CID, whoever. They’ll pay more attention to him if he’s got a round stuck in his Kevlar. Even best case, it’s a clean kill, it looks weird, he’s telling people his own guys are threatening him. Then he gets hit.”
“Is there any way that he could know your name?”
“Not unless Weston or Rodriguez told him. And they wouldn’t. They know better.”
“Then here’s what I think. Forget Young, unless he seems to know you. Sit tight. Those Stryker units will be home in two, two and a half months. After that, Young can squawk all he likes. He’s got no evidence. Not even enough for CID to open an investigation. And if Weston and Rodriguez get brought in somehow, they just have to keep their mouths shut. They smart enough to do that?”
“No doubt.”
“That’s it then. And Young must have figured that, too, because if he thought he could get an investigation opened, he’d try.”
“All right. I’ll tell them.”
“And tell them not to freelance, in case they have any ideas.”
Francesca nodded. “Something else I wanted to ask. We gonna keep this going after those guys leave?”
Stan grunted, like he hadn’t given the question much thought. Which surprised Francesca. Stan was making more money than anyone. “Your tour’s up, too,” he said after a few seconds.
“Sniping, yeah, but I can stay in if I like.”
“Didn’t know you were thinking that way.”
“The money’s right. And it’s not like I got anything waiting at home.”
“Then maybe we will.”
They made their way around the northern perimeter and now turned left, to the west side of the base. Dirt fields stretched for miles. In the distance, a farmer grazed goats on scrub and garbage. The airfield didn’t have blast walls here, only barbed wire and a few warning signs. The apparent lack of security was deceptive. Plastic alarm wires snaked through the fence, and a blimp overhead watched the fields. Anyone who tried to sneak close would be seen long before he reached the perimeter. Cutting the fence would trigger an immediate alarm from the quick-reaction force at the northwest corner of the base, a platoon of Humvees armed with .50 cal machine guns. Even suicide bombers needed better odds than that.
“Fortress Kandahar,” Francesca said.
“We should just spread the perimeter mile by mile until it goes all the way to the borders, kick all the Afghans out. You know a guy named John Wells?”
“The name, sure.” Wells was legendary in the Special Forces. He’d been involved in a couple ops so highly classified that they were rumor even among the Tier One guys. Word was that one involved a nuclear weapon.
“Wells is sniffing around our thing.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he came to Kabul asking about it. He freelances now, thinks he’s some kind of do-gooder, and he got interested in this.”
Francesca didn’t get why John Wells would care about a few kilos of heroin. He suspected Stan wasn’t giving him the full story, but he didn’t want to push. “So what do we do about it?”
“For now, nothing. I think he’s been chasing the source, but that won’t do him any good. Guy’s never met me. I’ve used a cutout. You’re the only one who knows my real name.”
“I’m honored. What about the cutout?”
“I’ll worry about him. But I wanted to let you know about Wells. If you hear his name, see him sniffing around, assume it’s not a coincidence.”
“But why would I see him around? How could he get to me?”
“I don’t think he can. But if he does.”
They had circled back to the southern side of the base, just a couple hundred feet from the heavily fortified headquarters of Regional Command South, which oversaw the war in Kandahar province. “I’ll hop here,” Stan said.
“Good to see you. Next time I’m going to make you have that coffee, okay?”
“Okay.”
Francesca pulled over. “You know what we are, Stan? Shadows. Come and go as we like, do what we like, and the normals can’t touch us.”
“Be safe, Danny.”
“You, too, my man.” They bumped fists and Stan walked away.
John Wells, Francesca thought. Ever since Alders had made fun of him at lunch, he’d been keeping his high-pitched giggle under control. Now he let it loose. John Wells. This whole deal had just gotten a lot more interesting. Enough Talibs in manjamas. Finally, Francesca would have the chance to play against a man worthy of his respect.
STAN MADE SURE that Francesca’s pickup truck had disappeared before he headed to the RC South headquarters gate. He’d almost blown it. He should have known Francesca would ask whether he wanted to keep smuggling after the Strykers left. Francesca was making a lot of money. Plus he liked the game. He was getting weird, all that talk about shadows and normals.
So no more mistakes. Stan had worked too hard, come too far. He’d convinced Amadullah of his sincerity. In a few days, he would cement that trust. Then he’d be only one step away from his true and final goal, the one that he’d told nobody else, not even Francesca. The revenge that belonged to him, and him alone.
16
CHICAGO
A
fter meeting Ryker, Shafer did what he did best. He sped back to Langley and spent the night mining databases as ferociously as a prospector who’d glimpsed a vein of pure gold. By noon, he’d tracked down addresses and arrests and immigration records for Miller. Curiously, Miller’s American passport showed only three visits to Pakistan in five years. Shafer figured Miller had another passport, probably Pakistani, probably in his birth name. He’d use that for trips to Pakistan to save himself trouble at American immigration.
Since the NSA had everything, it probably had Miller’s Pakistani passport records in a database somewhere. But no one had bothered matching up the files. Miller wasn’t an agent and he wasn’t a terrorist. He was a sleazebag occasional. The CIA had plenty of those. Ergo, no one paid much attention to him or his travels. Until now.
Flight records showed that Miller had left Chicago for Dubai about a month before. He was schedule
d to return to O’Hare two weeks later, with a one-day stopover at Heathrow. His usual pattern. Miller often stayed in London on his way home from Dubai. Maybe he had an English girlfriend.
This time, his plans changed. Miller never got on the London–Chicago flight. He turned around, went back to Dubai and then Quetta. He was so eager to reach Pakistan that he used his American passport the whole way instead of taking the time to book flights under different names. Shafer didn’t see any clues to explain Miller’s haste. His Chicago cell phone didn’t have the answer. Miller seemed to use it exclusively to order takeout and call home. No doubt Miller had other cell phones in Dubai and Pakistan. And the mole would have insisted on burner phones and single-use e-mail accounts. Short of using human couriers, constantly shifting numbers and e-mail addresses was the best way to stay ahead of the NSA. Though even couriers had risks, as Osama bin Laden had learned.
After arriving in Quetta, Miller disappeared. He wasn’t using his credit cards or phone. Maybe Amadullah was holding him captive in Muslim Bagh. Maybe he’d gone over the border into Afghanistan. Maybe he’d gone back to Dubai on still another passport. Shafer wasn’t too worried about him. The guy’s a cockroach, Ryker had said. A survivor. He’ll still be here when you and I are sucking down dust.
Shafer called Wells to fill him in, tell him to head for Dubai.
“You sure this is the guy?”
“My source thinks so. And I’ve confirmed the arrests, the name change, everything.”
“I’m sick of Kandahar anyway.”
“You get anything yet?”
“It’s tough to sit in the mess, start asking guys if they know about big-time heroin dealing. Kind of a conversation stopper.”
“So that’s a no.”
“That’s a no.”
“Miller can take us straight to the mole if we find him.”
“So you want me to go to Dubai. I’ve got the perfect cover.”
“You’re about to make a joke, aren’t you, John? I can tell because you get all out of breath, like it’s your first time on a bike with no training wheels.”
The Shadow Patrol Page 19
