Amadullah leaned his bulky body over, picked up the Dragunov. “You still haven’t told me why you need it.”
“I may have to clean up a mess.” Frank smiled, and Amadullah saw the anger in him, the real and true cruelty.
“This makes a good broom.”
FRANCESCA WATCHED the Afghans drive off and stowed the crate in the secret compartment welded to the bottom of his pickup. At Highway 1 he turned left, southeast toward Kandahar. Calibrate and recalibrate, snipers learned. Check and double-check before you pull that trigger. You have every advantage until you shoot, so take your time. Now Francesca laid his hands on the wheel and tried to calibrate what Amadullah had told him.
On the surface, everything made sense. Stan wanted to use Amadullah to assassinate other Talib leaders, ones the CIA couldn’t find. The drug trafficking had been a way to reach Amadullah and convince him that he could trust Stan. But the more he considered the story, the less Francesca believed it.
If Stan had planned to turn Amadullah all along, why go to such great lengths to hide the trafficking from his own bosses and everyone else at Kabul station? Why not just get someone senior at Langley to sign a finding for the project and use the Ground Branch, the agency’s paramilitary arm, to handle the pickups?
The SA-24s also bothered Francesca. The Russians knew they couldn’t build helicopters that could match American designs, so they’d spent a lot of time developing surface-to-air missiles as a cheap countermeasure. The SA-24 was their top-of-the-line rocket, as good as or better than anything the United States had. By all accounts, it could make mincemeat of Chinooks. Probably Black Hawks and Apaches, too. In all his years fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, Francesca had never seen one. Yet Stan had somehow delivered two to Amadullah. Using them to attack a ground convoy, even one with armored vehicles, seemed a major waste. An RPG or basic antitank missile would be much more effective at much lower cost.
Of course, Stan might have other reasons for going to the trouble of delivering the SA-24s. He might have imagined that the SA-24s would impress Amadullah.
Or . . . Amadullah could be lying. The missiles—assuming they existed at all—could be meant for another target. One that flew on helicopters or jets that were vulnerable only to the most sophisticated missiles. An American target.
Francesca wondered whether to call Stan, confront him, demand an answer. Then he thought of the Dragunov in the secret compartment. Let Stan and Amadullah play whatever game they wanted. Francesca had his own game. He was already thinking about how he might use the Dragunov on Coleman Young or John Wells. Maybe when he was done, he’d give Stan a taste of the rifle, too. Make him a hero the easy way, with one trigger pull. He could see the headlines: High-Level CIA Officer Shot to Death in Kabul . . . Taliban Claim Responsibility.
No, Francesca would keep his mouth shut, wait for the right moment to find out what Stan was doing. Check and double-check. Calibrate and recalibrate. At that moment, Francesca understood more than ever why he loved being a Shadow. The trigger pull was the only true moment in the whole damn war. Everything else was a lie.
22
LANGLEY
A
s soon as he hung up with Exley, Shafer started the process of putting together a Facebook profile for “Mindy Calhoun.” Mindy lived in Tempe, Arizona. She was twenty and a business major at Maricopa Community College. Her interests included the Green Bay Packers, Shia LaBoeuf, Kim Kardashian, and “Hot men in uniform! American only!”
Mindy’s profile had a half dozen photos, each naughtier than the next, though none pornographic enough to attract the attention of Facebook’s censuring software. The photos came from Corbis, though with a little help from the Directorate of Science and Technology, Shafer had tweaked them. Anyone who tried to find the originals through the image-recognition engines on the Internet would come up empty.
Mindy had a heart-shaped tattoo on her wrist and a blue mermaid for a tramp stamp. She looked ready for a few years as a Bud poster girl followed by a long career at Hooters. Within minutes of her creation, she had more than a hundred Facebook friends, mostly bots like her who lived in the CIA’s servers. That number was enough to make her credible to the soldiers whom Shafer wanted to friend. He picked guys from the South whose profiles showed no connections with Arizona. None of the facts on Mindy’s page were checkable except for her enrollment at Maricopa. Anyone who called the college would have found out that she didn’t exist. But as Shafer had expected, soldiers weren’t interested in running background checks. Forty-two accepted Mindy’s friend request within twelve hours. Several sent back messages that would have made Shafer blush if he were the blushing type. A couple guys were dumb enough to send pictures, too. Shafer wondered whether he’d been this horny when he was eighteen. Probably. And he hadn’t even been coping with the extra surge of testosterone that came with fighting a war.
After a day, Mindy had enough real soldiers as friends to make her profile believable even to someone who might have reason to be cautious, someone like Tyler Weston. So Shafer reached out to Weston. Yr super-cute, he wrote. And coming home soon . . . That’s awesome! A few hours later, Weston friended her: Me and my boys love college girls. Got more pics?
And so Shafer had the chance to examine Weston’s roster of 332 friends, including Rodriguez—though not Roman. He worked through them, trying to find the Special Forces officer whom Young had described to Wells. He came up with three candidates on his first pass. But upon closer inspection, none of the three looked right. The first had rotated home a month earlier. The second operated mainly in the mountain provinces east of Kabul, not in southern Afghanistan. The third, a Ranger lieutenant named Allan Rose, operated out of Kandahar, but he had an airtight alibi. He’d been on a mission in Kandahar province on the night Young had seen the suspect at FOB Jackson.
Shafer expanded his search, friending Rodriguez and Roman. But he came up short there, too. Then inspiration struck. He turned to Jake Weston, Tyler’s older brother. Your bro’s hot but yr even hotter. . . . I luv bad boys. . . .
Ninety minutes later, Mindy and Jake were friends, at least by Facebook’s definition. And on Jake’s page, Shafer found D. Lorenzo, who had only two photos in his publicly available profile. The first showed him from the side, wearing a white T-shirt and a floppy hat. The hat hid Lorenzo’s face, but not the oversize ace of spades tattoo on his equally oversize bicep. The ace was a favorite of Delta ops. Under “location,” Lorenzo had posted Kandahar. Under “works at”: I could tell you . . . but I’d have to kill you. Seriously. The second photo showed a single round, long and copper-tipped. A .50 caliber bullet. A sniper’s bullet.
Shafer searched public and military records and couldn’t find Lorenzo. He wondered whether the name was an alias. Then he remembered that soldiers who wanted to protect their privacy while still giving friends a way to find them often used middle names instead of last on Facebook. Bingo. Within ten minutes, Shafer had him. Daniel Lorenzo Francesca. He’d joined the Army fourteen years before and grown up a half mile from Tyler and Jake Weston. Before Afghanistan, he’d been based at Fort Bragg, the home of the Deltas. Now his personnel file listed his status as deployed/unavailable, the Army’s usual euphemism for a soldier on Special Operations duty.
Shafer called Wells, who was back at Kandahar. Technically, General Nuton had banned Wells from every base he controlled, including KAF. But the airfield was so big that as long as Wells stayed away from Nuton’s headquarters, the general couldn’t know he was there.
“I have good news, John.”
“David Miller.”
“Better. I found the middleman. Name’s Daniel Lorenzo Francesca. He was a sniper in Iraq, Special Ops, and he joined Delta about five years ago.”
“Sniper.”
“He might have killed more guys than you.”
“Unlikely.”
“Jealous, John? He’s finishing his second tour in Afghanistan. Looks like he’s based at KAF.”
“You
have a photo?”
“I’m working on it.” For obvious reasons, the Special Forces kept the names and faces of their operatives secret. The Deltas were doubly cautious. “I’ll get one from the North Carolina DMV. I’d rather not tip him yet.”
“He may already know. I’m looking for him.”
“Fair point.” The mole had probably warned Francesca after Wells showed up in Kabul. “Even if he knows we’re looking, let’s not let him know he’s been found. Anyway, his file’s strange.”
“Define strange.”
“As in, he seems to have gotten special language training. A few years ago, he went to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey for six months to learn Pashtun.”
“So?”
“So that’s unusual. JSOC usually views these guys as too valuable to pull them from the field that way. Plus I can’t figure out which Delta unit he’s part of. After Monterey, his assignment is listed as Delta/D71, no company or squad.”
“D71.”
“Correct.”
“You’re sure he’s our guy? You’re putting a lot on this Facebook connection.”
“Sure is too strong. But he’s the best candidate.”
“Get me the photo and I’ll see what Coleman says.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll get you six guys and you can run a lineup.”
“Good. And let’s say Coleman recognizes this guy. What then? I go talk to him? Ask him about his heroin trafficking? Because I have a feeling that’s not going to do it. And I don’t think CID or the Deltas are going to want to hear about it either.”
“I have a plan.”
“Do tell.”
“Three steps. The first at Kandahar, the second here, and the third at FOB Jackson.” Shafer explained.
“I don’t like it,” Wells said when he was finished. “It feels like tying a goat to a tree and waiting for the lion to show up.”
“Except the goat’s got a gun.”
“So’s the lion.”
“You have another way, I’m listening. But the hour’s getting short, John. Duto leaves in less than a week. Anyway, it’s Young’s call, not yours, right?”
“All right. I’ll ask him. Meantime you’ll send me what I need?”
“I’ll FedEx it tonight to the KBR office at KAF. Project manager there named Alan Sussman owes me a favor.” The breadth of Shafer’s connections always surprised Wells. But then Shafer had been in the game a very long time.
“Sussman.”
“Yeah. He’ll hold it for you, and that way it doesn’t have your name on it, just in case somebody’s looking for you. Meantime I’m going to see if I can trace Francesca up the chain, figure out who in Kabul he might know.”
“Facebook again.”
“I wish. But based on everything we’ve seen, our mole’s more careful than that. And speaking of careful. Watch out for this guy, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, Ellis.” Wells sounded almost personally offended at the suggestion that this Delta operative might pose a challenge to him.
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying. I’ve never liked snipers. Takes a special kind of nasty.”
23
FORWARD OPERATING BASE JACKSON
B
esides its brigade aid station, FOB Jackson had a combat stress clinic where a psychiatrist and a social worker talked to soldiers. Guys mostly came voluntarily, though sometimes commanders ordered them in. As Colonel Brown had told Wells, troubles at home were the biggest source of strain. Nearly every base had a Morale, Welfare, and Recreation center offering free Internet access. Many guys e-mailed their wives and families every day. But the constant contact didn’t always help. Deployment didn’t change relationships. Soldiers who’d had strong marriages in the United States had strong marriages in Afghanistan. For others, being in touch was more curse than blessing. Guys fought with their wives about child care, or freaked out after seeing pictures on Facebook of their girlfriends hanging out with other men. Military shrinks called the problems MWR syndrome.
The stress clinic at FOB Jackson was a simple one-story plywood building topped with sandbags and protected by a twelve-foot blast wall. Soldiers who didn’t want to be seen going in the main entrance could sneak through a gap in the rear wall that opened to a motor pool parking lot. Wells took that route, jogging up three wooden steps to an unlocked door. Inside, he found himself in the clinic’s break room, which held a coffeemaker and a shelf of paperback books and pamphlets about alcoholism, drug abuse, and family violence. An old-fashioned office clock ticked slowly, and vaguely depressing motivational posters covered the walls: “Fear Is Nothing to Fear,” “Six Ways to De-stress Yourself.”
“Hello?”
But no one answered. The clinic had officially closed for lunch at noon, a half hour before. Wells walked to the first door on the left, stepped inside. The room was windowless, six by six. Young sat on a plastic chair, leafing through a pamphlet with a light blue cover: “Signs Your Drinking May Be Getting the Better of You.”
“Coleman.”
“Mr. Wells, sir.”
“Call me John. Please.”
“I’m more comfortable using your last name.”
Wells had gotten that answer from enlisted men before. “Your choice. Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem, sir. Catching up on my reading.”
“Worried about your drinking?”
“No, sir. I don't drink. Been thinking what I ought to do when my contract’s up and I’m wondering about social work. Dealing with Oak Cliff kids like me. I’d have to get my B.A. first.”
“You’re not going to re-up.”
Young shrugged as if the question didn’t merit an answer.
“You been okay the last few days? No problems with Weston or Rodriguez?”
Another shrug.
“For what it’s worth I’m guessing you’d make a good social worker, Coleman.”
“How’s that?”
“You listen more than you talk. Probably the key to success.”
“In social work.”
“And life in general.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wells laid six pieces of paper on the desk, each with a headshot from the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles. Six men stared up, their lips curled into forced smiles. I’ve wasted a half day renewing my license already. Get me out of here. “Recognize anybody?”
“It’s one of these men, sir?”
“That’s for you to answer. Take your time. Even if you’re sure right away.”
Young examined the shots one by one. Methodical and cautious. Wells looked away. He didn’t want to tip Young. Finally, Young nodded and picked up Francesca’s picture. “This guy.”
“Definitely?”
“Yes. First I wasn’t sure, but them big elephant ears gave it away.” For the first time since Wells had met him, Young smiled. “He thinks he’s some bad, too. I can see it even in this.” Young tapped the DMV photograph. “Staring at the camera like he’s got better places to be. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not. His name’s Daniel Lorenzo Francesca. He’s buddies with Tyler Weston’s older brother, guy named Jake. He’s a warrant officer based at KAF. A bug-eater.” Regular soldiers called Special Forces operators bug-eaters, because their training supposedly included ways to survive on a diet of worms.
“A Delta?”
“Yes and no.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s part of a separate unit inside Delta. Called D71. Ever heard of it?”
Young shook his head. “What’s that about?”
“He’s gotten special language training, that’s about all I can tell you. Speaks Pashtun. One more thing I have to tell you. He was a sniper in Iraq before he joined Delta.”
Young wasn’t smiling anymore. “So he’s a sniper. Tier One. Speaks the language. And he’s got some mysterious job that even the CIA can’t figure.”
�
��That’s about right.”
“Sir. Question. What part of this is supposed to make me feel good?”
“I guess the fact that we found him.”
“So now what? You grab him?”
“Did you ever see him carrying drugs? Or even Weston or Rodriguez?”
“You know the answer’s no.”
“Hear him talking about the deal? Or what happened to Ricky Fowler? Or anything illegal at all.”
“The closest I got to this guy was maybe a hundred feet. I never heard anything. Maybe if I had ears like him.” Young shook his head. “Don’t tell me you can’t do this. You’re not some MP, sir. You’re CIA.”
“Even the CIA can’t grab a Delta operator for no reason.”
“You believe me? About the drugs and what happened to Fowler and everything?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Mr. Wells, sir. You run the guy down and sneak back here and bring me these pictures and I say it’s true, it’s really him. Then you say you can’t do anything about it. What is that?”
“I didn’t say I can’t do anything about it. There’s a way. But it puts you on the line. Because this guy will go after you for sure when we pull his chain. From the minute I go back to Kandahar, you have to figure that you’re at risk every time you go outside the wire. Maybe inside, too.”
“Tell me.”
Wells explained. When he was finished, Young picked up Francesca’s headshot, stared at it as if it might confess. “Boxed me, didn’t you? Know I can’t say no after that speech I made. Why it pays to keep your mouth shut.”
The Shadow Patrol Page 26
