Foreign Hostage
Page 1
FOREIGN HOSTAGE
______________
A Simon Ashcroft Double Pack
Aiden L Bailey
Blood Ivory © 2018 David Conyers
The Assyrian Contraband © 2017 David Conyers
ASIN: B07DH2XXYL
Foreign Hostage © 2019 first published as a collection in 2019.
All Rights Reserved
All characters, events, companies and organizations portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or companies or organizations, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express permission of the author.
Cover images purchased via Can Stock Photos.
Special thanks to Andrew Warren, Samuel Carver, Bodo Pfündl, Kate Knapp, Many Walken-Brown, Linda Nieuwenhoven, Terrill Carpenter, Simon Leonard and most of all, my amazing wife Suzanne Leonard.
www.aidenlbailey.com
for Alyssa and Suzanne with love
CONTENTS
PART I: BLOOD IVORY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART II: THE ASSYRIAN CONTRABAND
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Afterwards
Thank You!
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PART I: BLOOD IVORY
“Traders in ivory actually want the extinction of elephants.”
— Craig Millar, Head of Security for Big Life Kenya, The Ivory Game
“What makes us human is that, of all these things that our minds and [other animal’s] minds have, we are the most extreme. We are the most compassionate, most violent, most creative and most destructive animal that has ever been on this planet, and we are all of those things all jumbled up together.”
— Carl Safina, What are animals thinking and feeling? TED Talks
Authors Note
The events of this story take place before Threat Intelligence when Simon Ashcroft is an intelligence officer with the Australian Secret Intelligence Services (ASIS)…
CHAPTER 1
Ngorongoro Conservation Area, Tanzania
Simon Ashcroft had witnessed too many killings in his career, but this was shocking, even for a man as hardened as himself. Every body was lifeless and bloodied, though not a single human corpse in sight. The enormous elephants had no chance against AK-47s, high caliber hunting rifles and fragment grenades. A family of three dozen beautiful beings massacred in minutes, with no means to fight back.
He advanced towards the gory scene, his own AK-47 raised. His eyes stared down the gunstock as his boots kicked up dust in the dry savanna. Poachers might be nearby. They would shoot to kill people as readily as they murdered elephants. This was more than a crime scene, it was a battlefield.
Walking into a clearing, the stench of three baby elephant carcasses assaulted him. Two young faces hacked clean off. The third had lived long enough to run ten meters before being gunned down. These infant elephants had not lived long enough to grow the lengthy tusks that made them valuable to traders, but the poachers had slaughtered them anyway, dismembered their corpses with axes and chainsaws. Flies aggravated open wounds and the iron scent of fresh blood was strong. White splatters of shit from feeding vultures iced the corpses.
Simon gritted his teeth, holding back a bellow of rage and sadness. He hadn’t expected the loss of elephants to affect him as deeply as the loss of human life he had witnessed in other troubled parts across the globe, but it did.
“Fucking assholes!”
The American mercenary, Jack Orszak, blustered into the scene, shaking his favored M16A4 assault rifle. Simon sensed the muscular African-American was battling an intense need to kill someone. The former U.S. Navy diver seemed driven by the long history of persecution of his people, his every action fueled by a desire to execute justice in every situation.
“Fucking killed every last one of them…”
Simon didn’t know what to say. He’d seen so many child corpses in Afghanistan’s Helmand Province and knew that words could never be enough in these situations. The first time he witnessed mass killings had been as a fresh infantry recruit with the Australian Army, then later in his current role as an intelligence officer with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as ASIS. What struck Simon in those instances was the intense emotion expressed by the corpses. Although lifeless, the eyes of Afghan children expressed extreme fear. Simon now saw the same terror in the elephant’s dead face that had not been as butchered. The poachers would have murdered the adults first, leaving the distraught children until last, because they were easy pickings. He understood now why Tanzanians claimed that on an emotional level, humans and elephants were not so different.
“Or, maybe…” Orszak turned to Simon. “This your first elephant massacre, Ashcroft? Yes?”
Simon nodded. There was so much blood.
“Get used to it, bud,” Orszak slapped Simon on the back, “it doesn’t get easier.”
Simon’s stomach churned, but he sure as hell didn’t want to show Jack Orszak any sign of weakness in the face of mass-murder. He ignored the sickness in his stomach and said, “The killing looks fresh, Orszak. I’d say only an hour since the poachers were here.”
“Well, that’s fucking great,” Orszak exclaimed. “We’re only an hour fucking too late to save, what? Thirty, thirty-five elephants? I’d rather be an hour fucking early, and kill what… maybe five, six poachers instead?”
Simon ignored the angry retorts. Sergeant Orszak was typical of a lot of ex-soldiers he’d encountered in his time. They had seen too much, experienced unending battlefield horrors to where killing became normalcy. When they resigned from the military, there was no external structure available to help them continue their suppression of all the anger, disgust and terror. As a former U.S. Navy diver, Orszak would have spent much time submerged in muddy Middle Eastern waters, identifying, defusing and clearing mines during the War in Iraq. That kind of work fostered a certain level of heightened stress, followed by a post-adrenalin crash that few people understood, or could even imagine enduring. The risks were high, the health effects dramatic, and many didn’t survive that kind of work. To keep the demons away some veterans turned to drugs and drink, but Orszak had turned mercenary, fostering the discipline he needed to maintain his sanity in the face of continued tragedies.
These days Orszak contracted with Tanzania’s NTSCIU, the National and Transnational Serious Crimes Investigation Unit. An anti-poaching team comprising the best of the best from the police, army, immigration, judiciary, national wildlife service and TISS — the Tanzania Intelligence and Security Service. NTSCIU had had their successes in reducing the loss of elephants, but they had had their failures too. The War on Ivory often felt like the War on Terror. It was a brutal conflict without an end in sight. People like Orszak thrived on it being that way.
“Sergeant, I’m sure those responsible can�
��t be far.”
“You reckon, Ashcroft? You reckon?”
Simon shrugged, not sure how to answer. Orszak was baiting Simon, ready to use any remarks as fuel to rebuke Simon further. “I’ve seen this before,” he said spitting in the dry ground. “They’re long gone.”
Now that Simon had witnessed an elephant massacre of his own, he was understanding the American’s point of view. Not that he planned on telling Orszak this soon.
The third member of their team stepped from the bush, Mpenzi Isengwe. She was a senior TISS intelligence officer and the only official member of their outfit. A tall, thin woman, she cut her hair close to her scalp the way many African women did. The older model M16 looked natural in her grip, like she’d been using such weapons from birth. Similar to Orszak and Ashcroft, she wore sensible loosing fitting jeans, a linen shirt and desert boots, perfect for their wilderness hunt, capture — and if necessary — kill missions.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Simon shook his head. “Not yet. Still hoping to.”
“Tragic, I tell you. Tragic.” She wiped a tear from her eye, not afraid to express her emotions. Yet she looked away when Simon stared. He understood her unspoken desire: the tear was not to be acknowledged.
“Something is bothering me about all this…” Orszak growled, oblivious to Isengwe’s distress.
“What’s that, Jack?” she asked as she composed herself.
“Mpenzi, I don’t know,” he snapped, “… but something.” He scratched his head and grinned with no trace of happiness. “I’ll do a quick reconnoiter. Make sure the fucking poachers aren’t hanging around.”
He disappeared and Simon was glad. They didn’t need a surprise ambush while investigating the crime scene, and despite his gruffness, Orszak was a competent soldier. But also because Orszak’s constant negativity was draining, and Simon needed a break from the man.
Isengwe lowered her M16 and withdrew her digital camera. Simon kept his AK-47 ready because the tingling hairs on the back of his neck told him to prepare for a surprise attack. He would watch over her while she worked.
The intelligence officer snapped many photos covering every aspect of the kills. Each time she finished with an elephant carcass, she collected blood samples, marking and cataloging them against the photo record. And being recorded on various Tanzanian Government databases, they would log the massacre on all the major international anti-poaching registries. They would also record the DNA of each animal for comparison against future confiscated ivory stockpiles. This was about building prosecution cases and, of particular interest to Simon, identifying smuggling routes. By the time Isengwe had catalogued the third baby elephant she no longer hid her tears. She was sobbing.
Weapon ready, Simon let her be as he searched for other clues. The 7.62mm bullet shells, spat from AK-47s on full automatic mode, spread everywhere, discarded like candy wrappers in an emptying movie theater. There were the occasional .458 Winchester Magnum shells, dangerous game cartridges designed to take down an elephant. Boot marks showed many men had been present and there were clear tracks from an off-road vehicle. They would have driven in close, carrying chainsaws and leaving with stolen ivory. Simon catalogued it all, but there was nothing that was a useful lead.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Isengwe asked, taking a break, her tears once more under control. She offered him her water canteen, which he accepted.
It was hot, dusty work in the savanna. He’d seen photos of the region when it was verdant, but this was the dry season. The arid grasslands displayed the deep earthy shades of gray, orange, red and sand-textures like a sunset.
When he quenched his thirst, he wiped his mouth and handed back the almost empty canteen. “Not yet.”
She took it in her delicate but calloused hand.
Up close, Simon noticed that Isengwe was an attractive woman, with well-defined facial bone structure and eyes that seemed to stare right into him. Her height accented the slimness of her legs and the curvature of her hips. He guessed her age was late thirties or early forties. He wondered if she had a family, a husband and children, because even after Simon had been in the country for four weeks, she had not once talked about her personal life. She looked too sad to be alone, but also defiant and strong. He wished she would smile once in a while because sadness robbed her of her power, but these were the wrong circumstances to ask for positivity.
“It’s like you said I’d find: cartridges, boot prints, and tire tracks.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
Simon clenched his teeth. “Do you ever want to just give up, when you see a slaughter like this?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He shrugged. “This must be exhausting. Knowing that you have to be here for these elephants at all times, day and night, when the poachers only need to be here once, to get what they want?”
“I’ve never wanted to give up. I can’t. But I have my dark moments.”
He nodded. She seemed to take all this very much to heart. A normal reaction, but one that didn’t lead to long-term career survival in this kind of work. “It’s the same in my field. Terrorists are terrorists. We have to stop them every time before they strike. They only need to succeed once. We might never end the war, but I know what keeps me going is the knowledge that we win many battles along the way.”
“This war will end, Simon, when there are no elephants left!” Mpenzi Isengwe crossed her arms, staring through him with piercing eyes he couldn’t quite fathom. “You still haven’t explained why you are here, or the connection between your terrorists and my poachers?”
Isengwe was Simon’s TISS liaison officer while he was in Tanzania, but she could have easily been his minder, to ensure he only saw only what the Tanzanian Government wanted him to see. Simon didn’t know which, so he had to assume she could be both.
“I’m here because of Abu Sayyaf. Islamic State in the Philippines. After the occupation of Marawi, the Australian Government wants to ensure another fundamentalist Islamic terrorist organization doesn’t establish another caliphate in our backyard.”
“So? What’s their connection with elephants?”
“Like all terrorists, they require funding. One means is by gaining control of the illicit ivory trade into the Philippines. Ironic really, Catholic Filipinos buy the ivory to carve out religious iconography, but, without realizing, they ultimately supply cash to Islamic fundamentalism. I wonder how their respective gods would all feel about that?”
“I understand the geopolitics, Simon. What I don’t understand who, where or when. If you expect me to help you, you need to share actionable intelligence. Names, places and dates.”
Simon relaxed his friendly smile. He had been holding out on her and she’d known it from the moment he had touched down in Dar es Salaam. There had been a good reason for Simon’s caginess.
“I’ve been tight-lipped because I know about the assassin you are hunting, who is systematically murdering your poachers.”
Isengwe laughed, but there was no humor. “He’s a myth.”
“You answered quickly, are you covering for him?”
Her laugh became a long chuckle, and Simon worried he hadn’t read her correctly. “It’s probably not one person, Simon. It’s likely just a turf war between rival poaching syndicates. Syndicates like to give fancy names and build myths around their people.”
“One person or many, I don’t care. What I care about is this assassin—”
“Or two, or three—”
“Let’s just presume one assassin for the moment. Someone is feeding him actionable intelligence. My people, ASIS, think NTSCIU, or maybe even TISS has a leak—”
“Impossible—”
“Not impossible. This assassin, vigilante, whatever you want to call him — presumably it is a man because it fits the profile — is more than happy to use this leaked information, to support his personal mission of murdering anyone and everyone associated with the ivory trad
e. I know—”, he raised his hand to stop her from interrupting again, “—a man like that should make all our lives easier. Unfortunately, this assassin is murdering all our informants too. We can’t build a big picture of the enemy. ASIS doesn’t know the smuggling routes any better than you do. Until this vigilante is out of the picture, I can’t risk providing classified intel to anyone in your organization.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I can’t. You of all people should appreciate why.”
Isengwe’s eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched.
“Okay, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, yet,” he said in a more conciliatory tone.
“Simon, do you know how many slaughtered African elephants there are every year?”
He shrugged. He didn’t know. “Thousands?”
“Thirty thousand! Does that number mean anything to you? Really mean anything to you? Because if it doesn’t, how about this? In five years there could be no elephants left, anywhere, and you’re arguing over one individual, who is killing a few of the bad men that we too want taken out?”
Simon wasn’t certain how he should respond. Mpenzi Isengwe’s reaction was the same anger-fueled passion that Orszak wore like a proud badge. This wasn’t just a job for either of them, it was a calling.
“I’m sorry, Isengwe—”
“Sorry? You don’t even understand what that means. Look around you. Look at the blood you are standing in. This was a family. These elephants loved each other. The adults schooled the children. They mourned their dead, and they regularly visited the bones of the older generations that had passed. They shared what we would call oral traditions, stories, passed on from one generation to the next, for thousands of years. They were all that yesterday. Today…” her voice trailed off in despair.