“Let’s hope that it’s him, but in the meantime I’m ordering roadblocks on all the highways and deploying smaller units to patrol the back roads. General Behzadi is taking his orders directly from the supreme leader on this. There will be repercussions all the way down the chain of command if we fail.”
“We won’t fail, sir. We’ll get him.”
“You had better, Captain.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I HAVE SOMETHING YOU want,” said Kirby as she stepped into Graves’s office.
Ted continued to scowl at his computer. “I’m in the middle of something . . .”
“Do you want the good news first or the bad news?” she asked.
He looked up and pushed back from his desk. “Do you know who Philippides was?”
“Of course. Did you forget that I’m a triathlete? He was the messenger from the Battle of Marathon, the inspiration for the modern race.”
“Do you know what happened to him after he delivered his important message?”
“Legend has it that he died on the spot.”
“Well then . . . maybe I’ll get lucky and history will repeat itself,” Graves said without the slightest hint of a smile.
Kirby took a chair across from his desk and sat down slowly, keeping a wary eye on her boss.
“So . . . do you remember how Miller set up a rendezvous in Paris with G. Marchand just before he left for Iran?” she asked. “It turns out Marchand is DGSE.”
“How sure are you?”
“At first we just had an Agency contact report filed a couple of years ago that listed Marchand as a ‘probable,’ but the surveillance team I set up followed Marchand’s car right into the Administration Center.”
“Any chance it’s a professional contact?”
“I checked Miller’s Agency records, plus his phone and e-mail account. No hits on Marchand.”
“Please tell me that wasn’t the good news.”
“No. That’s definitely the bad news. We were operating under the assumption that Miller was meeting a man, but it turns out Marchand is a woman, and she’s beautiful.”
Graves raised an eyebrow as Kirby continued.
“I’m serious. She’s probably five-ten, long dark hair, athletic body, just gorgeous. The surveillance team leader actually thanked me for putting him on the job. He asked me if I wanted to set up some surveillance inside her apartment, but I think the creep just wants the footage for . . .”
“I get the idea, Christine. Do we have any idea what she does at DGSE?”
“No, but I’m guessing she’s not field operations if she’s driving her car right in the front gate to work every morning. It’s certainly no way to build a legend.”
Graves let out a mirthless laugh at the irony of the statement.
“Mention that to Clements the next time you see him . . . What about SIGINT? Anything worthwhile?”
“Nothing. Her phone calls and e-mails are all with friends and family. She probably has secure comms for work. We’re tracking those down right now.”
“See if there is any tie-in between the murder victim and Marchand. We need to expand the surveillance too. I want her vehicle tailed twenty-four-seven.”
“We could just put a GPS tag on her car.”
“I wouldn’t. There’s a chance DGSE security walks the parking lot scanning for emissions. We do it back at Langley. If they find the tag, Marchand will change everything she does and be useless to us. I want to see who she makes contact with, especially Middle Easterners. Be cautious and assume she’s a pro. You know the drill: penetrate the apartment indirectly, use a floating-box for the vehicle surveillance, passive electronic intercepts . . . the whole package.”
Kirby sat back in her seat and stretched her legs. “You know, she could just be his girlfriend. Miller is pretty cute.”
Graves looked askance at Kirby. “Or he got himself caught in a honey trap and now she’s blackmailing him. Don’t let your guard down on this one, Christine. There’s more at stake here than just Miller’s whereabouts.”
TWENTY-NINE
THE NEXT MORNING Zac volunteered to help with the chores around camp. He joined a group of men shepherding the goats into the nearby hills. There was scarcely any vegetation in sight, but the animals put their heads down and managed to find something to eat. Despite the heat, their ragged, short fleeces were already beginning to grow out for winter. Zac spent most of the day watching the goats, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d discovered in Sirjan. The responsibility weighed heavily upon him. He knew that there was more than just his life riding on his survival. Much more.
Hani had news for the men upon their return to camp. The trader’s truck would be coming the next day. Hani explained that they would load the containers of goat milk onto the donkey carts tonight and Zac would accompany three other men to meet the truck in the morning. Hani saw the enthusiasm in Zac’s face and quietly led him away from the group. There was one more thing he needed to know—Husam would be leading the group to Bandar Abbas.
* * *
• • •
BY THE LIGHT of dawn, the three carts were hooked to the donkeys. Most of the camp was up to help or simply wish the travelers well. Goat milk was the only commercial asset the herders had until the spring, when the animals would be shorn and their wool made into the carpets that had made the region famous.
Husam moved purposefully about the camp, checking the carts and the animals, taking inventory of the sealed milk containers, and consulting with the village elder. As the one who would take the milk into Bandar Abbas, negotiate the sale price, and buy supplies, Husam held a position of great responsibility. Zac realized that he must have the confidence of many in the tribe.
Zac brought Hani with him to speak with Husam, but Husam seemed focused on the business of the day.
Hani translated for Zac, “I understand this is an important time. I will help if I can, or stay out of the way if I cannot. I will do whatever you need from me.”
Husam stared at Zac for a few seconds and walked away. Hani looked at Zac with a worried expression and did the same.
Great . . .
The small traveling party left camp with Husam leading the way. Zac and the two other men each led one of the donkey carts. The air was still quite cool, and the plan was to be off the trail before the worst of the midday sun. The group moved steadily through the mountainous terrain. With the carts in tow, they stuck to a well-worn trail through the valley where the going was easy and only the soft creaking of the wheels broke the silence.
The temperature rose quickly as the sun climbed over the eastern peaks. The deep blue sky contrasted vividly with the grays and golds of the mountains. Husam held up a hand and signaled for the group to stop. He took a jug of water and some food from one of the carts, which he shared with the other two nomads, but not with Zac. Eager to avoid another confrontation, Zac pulled out his own canteen and sipped from it. The other two men chuckled at Husam’s pettiness, but he snapped at them and trudged off, leaving an uneasy feeling over the group.
The small caravan resumed its journey. As they made their way up a rocky incline, one of the milk containers broke free from the back of Zac’s cart and tumbled to the ground. It was dented but intact. He stopped and lifted the large container back into the rear of the cart.
Zac felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. It stunned him and knocked him back against the cart. He turned and saw Husam with a rock in his hand. The herder was naturally strong, and a life of manual labor had turned him into a mass of muscle. With Zac off balance and pinned against the cart, Husam dropped the rock and threw a punch to Zac’s stomach. Husam cocked his arm for a third strike when Zac pushed off the cart and stepped forward, swinging his elbow into Husam’s jaw. The nomad fell back to shake off the blow while Zac moved sideways, away from the cart. The other men shouted and
gestured for the fighting to stop, but Husam ignored them. He drew his dagger and lunged.
Zac had practiced defending himself against an armed attacker dozens of times in martial arts classes, but he’d never actually faced one until now. He pushed Husam’s arm away to block the blade, then landed another elbow strike to the head before driving his knee between the nomad’s legs. Husam dropped the knife and doubled over in pain. Zac struck with his knee again, this time to the face. The herder dropped to the ground, clutching his groin and bleeding from his mouth and nose.
Zac stepped back and watched. The other men were stunned by the sudden violence. It had taken just a few seconds and, in the end, it was Husam who lay beaten and bleeding on the ground. The two herders were only spectators, but the swift beating that Zac had unleashed upon their fellow nomad had clearly put them on edge.
Zac could kill the three of them with the pistol if he had to, but he still needed a ride to Bandar Abbas. One of the things he’d learned while working for the government was that there was a time for force and a time for diplomacy. Sensing a pivotal moment, he offered a hand to Husam to help him up. The herder lay on the ground, clutching his knees to his chest. He looked up at the outstretched hand and wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. One of the other nomads said something but Husam turned away and wiped more blood from his face. With obvious difficulty he stood up on his own. Zac withdrew his hand and stepped back, mindful that wounded predators were often the most dangerous. Husam took a swig from the water jug and spit out a mouthful of pink water. He started walking, slowly and with difficulty, on the trail in front of the carts.
The next hour and a half passed in quiet tension. Nothing was said and no breaks were taken. The sun blazed down upon them, but the nomads were unfazed by the heat, and even Zac had built up a tolerance for it.
Husam eventually resumed a normal pace and the blood on his clothes dried in the hot sun. By the time they reached the road he appeared almost normal. He spoke with the other nomads and the three of them tied a small tarp between the carts to create some shade. The four men crawled under the tarp and sat quietly in restless rapprochement as they awaited the arrival of the trader. The nomads mostly dozed, waking to the occasional sound of a passing car or truck, but Zac remained alert. An army jeep drove by without incident. With his deeply tanned skin, worn clothes, and scruffy beard, Zac was hiding in plain sight. But it was the thinnest of disguises. His camouflage would not survive even a single question.
One of the nomads roused the others when he spotted a medium-sized truck coming from the north. The men crawled out from under the tarp as the truck pulled off the road in front of them, the diesel engine groaning loudly as the driver downshifted. The old truck looked like the bastard child of a city bus and a dump truck, its indeterminate color buried under layers of dust and dirt. With a four-passenger cab, four wheels in the back, and a fenced-in bed, it was built for hard use.
The driver jumped down from the cab and walked to the back, which was filled nearly to capacity with a tower of hay. He was a fireplug of a man, with a barrel chest, thinning hair, and a clean-shaven face. Husam and the others greeted him warmly and exchanged hugs. One of the other nomads explained Zac’s presence and the driver gave him a bear hug as well. To Zac’s immense relief, the trader spoke some English. He introduced himself as Ahmet and told Zac that he would gladly take him to the market in Bandar Abbas. Husam remained silent.
With the four men working together, it took less than ten minutes to shoehorn the milk containers into the truck’s bed. Husam spoke with one of the herders who would be returning the carts to camp while the other herder spoke with Ahmet. Zac could tell by the body language, and the expression on the trader’s face, that the conversation was likely about the history between Husam and Zac. The driver nodded solemnly as the men parted.
With an encouraging shout, Ahmet climbed into the cab. Husam entered on the passenger side. He pointed at Zac then gestured to the bed of the truck. Zac hesitated for a moment until Ahmet looked over and yelled for him to get in the cab. Zac climbed up slowly and slid onto the wide bench seat, leaving plenty of room between Husam and himself.
Despite its heavy load, the truck performed well on the road. Ahmet occasionally made small talk with Husam or Zac but the ride passed mostly in silence. As they drove south, the rocky mountains and scrub-covered hills gave way to windswept dunes. They could see the heat rising off of the land. Even with the windows lowered, the temperature was stifling. Zac was grateful that he wasn’t sleeping in a cave or staggering over the hot ground.
When they passed a sign indicating that Bandar Abbas was twenty kilometers away, Ahmet spoke to Zac.
“Where you want to go? Police? They help you?”
Zac hesitated then said, “No police. I lost my passport.”
Ahmet looked over at Zac, then back out the windshield as he continued driving. The trader led a simple life, but he was not a simpleton. Like the elder in the nomads’ camp, he likely doubted Zac’s story about being a lost hiker. He spoke quietly to Husam, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
Ahmet stared straight ahead and said flatly, “You come to market with us. Find your way from there.”
The remaining miles passed quietly until they rounded a corner at the outskirts of the city. Ahmet slowed the truck and merged into a long line of traffic. There was an army checkpoint on the road ahead. Ahmet scowled, Husam smiled, and Zac took a deep breath and reached for his gun.
THIRTY
TWO ARMORED PERSONNEL carriers flanked the road ahead. Half a dozen heavily armed soldiers were deployed around the checkpoint, while two more crewed a 12.7mm machine gun mounted atop one of the APCs. The troops were alert and focused despite the heat and humidity. Ahmet muttered something while the three of them waited in the truck. Zac watched the cars ahead of them stop at the checkpoint. Four soldiers formed a box around each vehicle while two others interviewed the passengers.
Zac’s heart was pounding. He could feel each bead of sweat as it dripped down his face. When their truck was next in line, he poked Husam in the ribs. The nomad shot back a contemptuous look until he saw that it was a semi-automatic pistol that was pressed against his side. The arrogance drained from his face and he immediately sat up straight, swallowed hard, and looked out the windshield. Zac draped his parka over the pistol and gazed out the window.
The soldiers waved the old truck up to the checkpoint. Zac slouched in his seat and tried to look bored. The mounted machine gun was barely twenty-five feet away and he could see the ammunition belt hanging down from the weapon, the sun glinting off the copper-jacketed bullets. Two soldiers approached the truck and the one on the driver’s side began to question Ahmet. He shook his head while he talked with the soldier. The soldier on the passenger side spoke up a moment later. In his hand was a full-page photocopy of Zac’s passport photo. The picture had been taken several years ago and enlarged so many times that the reproduction was a poor likeness. Still, Zac could barely breathe as he looked at the image of his own face. The soldier said something Zac didn’t understand. His hand tightened on the grip of the pistol. The soldier looked directly at Zac and spoke again. This time he held up the paper and made an exaggerated display of the photo. Zac glanced at the picture of himself taken just before he’d joined CIA. He was young, pale, and clean shaven. He shook his head, his profile to the soldier.
Husam looked at the picture and hesitated. His eyes widened as he recognized the man in the photo. Husam looked at the soldier. The two men made eye contact. Zac pressed the muzzle of the pistol deeper into Husam’s ribs. If bullets started flying, Zac wouldn’t make it out of there alive, but he’d decided days ago that dying quickly in a shootout would be better than being tortured for the rest of his life by Colonel Arzaman. Husam mumbled a couple of words and shook his head. The soldier yelled to his squad mates and the truck was waved through.
Everyone was quiet in the cab of th
e truck as Ahmet drove down a wide boulevard into the eastern part of the city. Zac pulled the pistol off Husam’s ribs but continued to grip it tightly. Staring out the window, Zac quickly realized that Bandar Abbas was not the beautiful seaside metropolis he’d expected. Except for an ornate mosque, everything that wasn’t dust or sand seemed to be concrete. The buildings, the open space, and even the trees seemed to have been poured into dull, geometric forms. As they drove deeper into the heart of the city the buildings grew in height but not in character. The entire city looked like a prison.
The waterfront market came into view a few blocks to the south. Despite the overpowering heat and humidity, the streets were crowded with pedestrians. Most of the men were dressed comfortably in long pants and short-sleeve shirts, but many of the women were clad from head to toe in black chadors, their faces covered with red veils. Stalls and carts lined both sides of the road with purveyors of everything from spices to livestock. Ahmet slowed the truck as they threaded their way through the crowds and past an enormous fish market.
He spoke quietly with Husam for a moment, then parked on a side street and stepped down from the truck, beckoning the others to follow. Husam quickly slid off the seat and walked into a shop. Zac tucked the pistol in his pants and covered it with his loose-fitting shirt before jumping down.
Ahmet took Zac gently by the arm and spoke. “We unload milk here. It best if you go now.”
Warning Light Page 11
