Dead or Alive

by Grant Blackwood

  “I’ll go,” Chavez said from the backseat, and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” Embling muttered, eyes fixed on the shop.

  “Why?”

  “Whoever he’s working for probably has a few at his disposal. It’s a practice here, little runners to do one’s trivial errands.”

  Sixty seconds later the boy reappeared on the sidewalk. He looked both ways, then called out to a man sitting on a bench two doors down. The man said something back and pointed directly at Embling’s Honda.

  “Distressing turn,” Embling said.

  Clark replied evenly, “Not if he comes this way. If we’re burned, he’ll go in the opposite direction.”

  He didn’t. Running at a sprint now, dodging a stream of honking and swerving cars, the boy crossed the street and ran past them. From the backseat, Chavez said, “One block up. Turned east.”

  Nigel put the car in gear and pulled up to the stop sign, waiting for a break in traffic. When it came, he turned right. “This will run parallel to him for two blocks.” At the next stop sign he turned right, then left, then pulled to a stop beside a school playground.

  “Got him,” Clark said, eyes fixed on the side mirror.

  The boy turned into a doorway covered in a red awning and reemerged a few seconds later with another boy, this one in his early teens, with curly black hair and a leather jacket. As the first boy talked and gesticulated, the teenager walked to a nearby streetlamp and began working a cable lock around a lemon-yellow moped.

  “Well played, Nigel,” Clark said.

  “We’ll see. Moped kids here think they’re bloody off-road bikers.”

  This one, they quickly realized, was no exception. Though his top speed never exceeded twenty-five miles per hour, the teenager weaved through traffic with a seeming irregularity that reminded Clark of a kite on a gusty day. For his part, Nigel did not follow the moped’s every lane change but rather continued straight, always keeping the yellow moped within sight and changing lanes only when necessary.

  The teenager headed southeast away from the cantonment, first on Bara Road, then northwest onto the Ring Road Bypass. The street signs, written in Urdu, were indecipherable to Clark and Chavez, but Embling kept a color commentary of their route.

  “Crossing Kabul Canal,” he announced.

  Chavez asked, “Closing in on the Hayatabad, aren’t we?”

  “Good eye. Yes, we are. Another two miles. Coming up on Gul Mohar.”

  At the last second the moped swerved right across two lanes and took the exit. Embling, already in the far right lane, simply put on his blinker and followed.

  For the next twenty minutes the teenager took them on what could only be a dry-cleaning run-and did a fairly decent job of it, Clark had to admit. They passed the University of Peshawar, the Department of Tourism offices, and the British Cemetery, until finally their subject headed north on Pajjagi Road, passed the Peshawar Golf Club, and again crossed the Kabul Canal. Soon they were on the outskirts of the city. Squares of green irrigated fields appeared on their left and right. Embling dropped back until the moped was a speck of bright yellow.

  After six miles, the moped turned west and followed a winding, tree-lined road before pulling into a narrow driveway. Embling stopped a few hundred yards down the road, did a U-turn, then shut off the engine. They waited. This far from Peshawar proper, there were no honking horns and no revving of engines. The minutes ticked by until a half-hour had passed.

  Down the road came the sound of a puttering engine. Embling started the car and accelerated for a quarter-mile to the next driveway and pulled in, coasting down the sloping dirt tract until the main road was barely visible through the back window. Ahead was an old barn, its roof partially caved in. Chavez turned around in his seat. A moment later, the top of the boy’s head drove past.

  “Your call, John.”

  “Let him go. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for. If the boy’s going to check the pickup spot, he’ll be back soon enough.”

  And he was, forty minutes later, flashing by their driveway. Moments later the moped’s engine went silent.

  “I’d say you’ve found your quarry,” Embling said.

  Clark nodded. “Let’s drive past and see what we can see.”

  An hour later, back at Embling’s house, Clark and Chavez sat and sipped tea while their host made three phone calls in rapid-fire Urdu. He hung up and said, “It’s a private security firm.”

  “Wonder who he’s afraid of?”

  What they’d seen as they’d passed the driveway was a white van bearing a white-and-red placard sitting in the dirt turnaround, and next to it a two-story white farmhouse.

  “That I don’t know, nor was I able to find out the client’s name. The firm is a fairly recent hire, however. Last week, in fact. Two men per shift, round-the-clock coverage.”

  Clark checked his watch. Nightfall was in five hours. He looked at Chavez, who’d already read his partner’s mind. “Let’s go get him.”

  “Nigel, I don’t suppose you have any hardware-”

  “I do. An alarming array, in fact.”

  47

  TWO HOURS AFTER SUNSET, Clark turned Embling’s Honda into the abandoned barn’s driveway. He shifted into neutral, shut off the engine, and allowed momentum to carry them down the slope and into the shadow along the barn’s wall. When the car came to a halt, he shifted into park, Chavez turned off the dome light, and they climbed out.

  Nigel hadn’t been exaggerating the extent of his weapon’s cache, which he kept in an old steamer trunk in his closet. They chose a pair of noise-suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter pistols. Standard-issue sidearm for the British SAS. They’d both spent many hours on the range with the P226. At Embling’s urging, they each grabbed a lead-and-leather cosh. “Never can tell when you’ll have a merciful moment,” he told them with a smile.

  Now Chavez whispered, “What’s the plan?”

  “Probably be one guard outside, either static or roving, and another inside. We’ll take down the first, then deal with the other when the time comes. Ding, try the cosh first. The fewer bodies we leave, the better.”

  “Fine by me.”

  They split up, Clark moving west through the trees behind the barn and Chavez following the drainage ditch bordering the main road. “In position,” Clark heard through his earpiece.

  That was fast, Clark thought. Ah to be young again. “Stand by.”

  He took his time moving through the underbrush, checking for telltales underfoot and low-hanging branches too dark to see. After a quarter-mile the trees began thinning out, and he soon found himself at the north end of the turnaround, thirty yards opposite the driveway entrance.

  “In position,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

  “End of the drainage ditch, against the driveway berm.”

  “I see one sentry. Sitting in a lawn chair at the van’s front bumper.”

  “Come again?”

  “Sitting in a lawn chair, smoking, facing my direction.” Whoever had hired them was not getting his money’s worth. “Got a Type 56 leaning against the bumper on his right.” The 56 was a Chinese copy of the AK-47. Not the same quality, but certainly enough to worry about.

  Chavez said, “I’m seeing one light on, lower level, my side.”

  “Dark here. No movement. Go when you’re ready.”

  “Roger.”

  Even though he knew Ding was coming, Clark didn’t spot him until he was within ten feet of the van’s rear bumper. Ninjas own the night had been Chavez’s old unit’s motto. And he still did, Clark knew.

  Chavez reached the bumper, took a peek around the quarter panel, then dropped into a crouch and waited.

  “Still nothing,” Clark whispered after a minute.

  He got a double-click roger in reply.

  Chavez eased back now, moving around the other side of the van and out of sight. Ten seconds later, a shadow appeared behind the seated guard. Chavez’s arm cocked bac
k and came forward. The guard slumped forward, leaning sideways against the van’s grille. Chavez pulled him back upright and crushed out the fallen cigarette.

  “Down and out.”

  “Roger. Moving.”

  They met in the shadows along the house’s south wall. The porch and front door lay to their left. With Clark in the lead, they slid down until the entrance was in view. The inside door stood open, but the screen door was closed. They mounted the porch and got stacked on either side of the door. Now they could hear the faint sounds of television from inside the house. Clark, on the latch side, reached up and tested it. Locked. He reached into his back pocket, thumbed open his knife, and gently, carefully, inserted the tip into the mesh and drew the blade down until he had created a six-inch slit. He closed the knife and returned it to his pocket, then reached through and felt around until he found what he was looking for. There was a soft snick. He withdrew his hand and then sat still for a full minute.

  Clark nodded at Chavez, who returned it, then crab-walked across the doorway and slid into position behind Clark, who reached up and depressed the door handle. He opened the door an inch, stopped, then tried another couple of inches. No matter their age or condition, screen doors seemed prone to creaking. Maybe it was the exposure to the elements.

  This door didn’t disappoint. At the halfway point the hinges peeped. Clark froze. Chavez scooted forward until he could see beneath Clark’s outstretched arm into the house. He pulled back and signaled clear. Inch by slow inch, Clark opened the door the rest of the way. With his gun leading, he stepped inside. Chavez took control of the door, then followed, easing it shut behind him and getting nothing worse than another metallic peep.

  They were in a kitchen. Wooden countertops, cabinets, and a sink to the left; round dining table in the center. An arched doorway in the right-hand wall led to another room. Chavez checked it and gave a thumbs-up. They moved through into what was clearly a sitting room. To the right, a set of stairs led to the second floor. Ahead, a short hall. This is from where the television sounds were emanating. Each taking a wall, they moved into the hall, stepping and pausing, stepping and pausing, until they were within ten feet of an open door. Inside, Clark could see the blue-gray light of a television flashing off the walls.

  Clark closed the remaining distance and took up position beside the doorjamb. He nodded at Ding, who came up the right wall until he had an angled view through the door. He stepped back a couple of feet and gestured: Two men in chairs. One nearest the door armed. Clark signaled back: I’ll take him; you sweep through.

  Chavez nodded.

  Clark switched his gun to his left hand and drew the cosh from his belt. With a curt nod, he leaned around the corner, picked his target, and wrist-whipped the cosh into the man’s temple. Even as he slumped sideways, Chavez was in the room, gun up. He stopped. His brow furrowed. He crooked his finger at Clark, who stepped through the door.

  Their man was asleep.

  Chavez woke him up with a light tap of the gun’s barrel across the bridge of his nose. As his eyes flittered open, Chavez said, “English?”

  The man pressed himself as far back in his chair as he could.

  “English?” Chavez repeated.

  “Yes, I speak English.”

  Clark said, “Make sure this one and Mr. Lawn Chair are out of action. I’ll take him.” Chavez shoved the guard to the floor, then grabbed his wrist, dragged him down the hall into the sitting room, and headed outside.

  “What’s your name?” Clark asked their host.

  No reply.

  “If you’re not even going to give me your name, we’re in for a long, ugly night. Let’s start with your first name. No harm in that.”

  “Abbas.”

  Clark pulled the now-empty guard’s chair out, spun it around, and sat down so they were knee to knee.

  The screen door opened and banged shut. Chavez came in with the first guard over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He unceremoniously dumped him beside his partner. “Found some duct tape in the van,” he told Clark, then went to work with it. Once done, he joined Clark.

  “Let’s make sure we’re getting off on the right foot,” Clark told Abbas. “You know what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think your name is Abbas. I’m going to have my friend look around your house for anything with a name on it. If it doesn’t say Abbas, we’re going to start hurting you.”

  “My name is Obaid. Obaid Masood.”

  “Good.” Clark nodded at Ding, who went out and started rummaging around. “Do you want to change your answer while there’s still time?”

  “My name is Obaid Masood. Who are you?”

  “Depends on how you answer my questions. Cooperate and we’re friends. Don’t cooperate… Tell me about your security detail. Why do you think you need them?”

  Masood shrugged.

  “Listen, if your worry was about the police or the Army, they probably would have already been here, which suggests to me you’ve fallen into some bad company. Somebody you worked for, maybe?”

  Chavez reappeared. He nodded: He’s telling the truth.

  “Somebody you worked for?” Clark repeated.

  “Perhaps.”

  “The Umayyad Revolutionary Council?”

  “No.”

  “Do you watch baseball?”

  Masood’s brows furrowed. “I have, yes.”

  “We’re going to call your ‘no’ strike two,” Clark said. “One more and I’m going to shoot you in the foot. Have you bothered to ask yourself how we found you?”

  “The dead drops?”

  “Right. And who do you suppose we got those from?”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do. We found you. They can find you.”

  “You’re American.”

  “That’s true. What you need to decide is whether you hate us more than you fear them. Because if we don’t start getting some answers, we’re going to drive you into the Hayatabad and dump you out of the car.”

  This got Masood’s attention. “Don’t do that.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I used to work for ISI. I… moved people. Relocated them.”

  “Like a black-market travel agent?” Chavez observed.

  “Yes, I suppose. Eight months ago I was approached.”

  “By whom?”

  “I didn’t know him, and I’ve never seen him again.”

  “But URC, correct?”

  “I found that out later. He offered me a lot of money to move someone.”

  “How much money?”

  “Two hundred thousand, U.S.”

  “Did you ever meet this person?”

  “No.”

  “What exactly did you do for them?”

  “Passports, documentation, private planes. Making sure the right customs and immigration people are paid. It took me five months to put everything together. They were meticulous in their demands, having me double- and triple-check every arrangement.”

  “When did you hand over everything?”

  “Two months ago.”

  Chavez asked, “Did you give them everything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you keep copies?”

  “Paper copies?”

  Clark put a little steel in his voice. “Any kind of copies, Obaid.”

  “There is a hard drive.”

  “Here?”

  Masood nodded. “Taped to the underside of the kitchen sink in a plastic bag.”

  Chavez headed out the door. He was back a minute later carrying a Ziploc bag. Inside was a drive about the size of a deck of cards. “Eight gigs,” Chavez said.

  “English, Ding.”

  “A lot of storage space.” He held the bag up toward Masood. “Everything you did for them is in there?”

  “Yes. Digital scans, e-mails… everything. Can you get me out? Out of the country?”

  “Might take a little time,” Clark said,
“but we’ll get it done. Until then, we’ll get you out of sight. Stand up.”

  Masood did so. Clark clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the good guys’ team.” He pushed Masood toward the door. Ding grabbed Clark’s elbow. “A minute?”

  “Go ahead, Obaid. Wait for us in there.”

  Chavez said, “You’re thinking about stashing him with Nigel.”

  “I was.”

  “Fifty-fifty chance somebody will track him down. If they do, that’s it for Nigel and his kid.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  Chavez paused. “We got the drive. Maybe we cut our losses and-” Chavez tipped his head to the side, looking over Clark’s shoulder. “Shit.”

  Footsteps pounded in the other room.

  “He heard me! Goddamn it!”

  Chavez darted out the door, through the sitting room, and into the kitchen just as the screen door slammed closed. “Ah, fuck me!” He was halfway to the screen when a crack brought him to a halt. In a crouch, he backtracked into the sitting room. Clark was already there, peeking his head above the windowsill. In the driveway a pair of headlights cast stripes in the dirt. Lying in one of the beams was Masood. A figure carrying a pistol walked up to him, knelt down, and fired two rounds into his head, then stood up and walked back into the headlights. A door slammed shut, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel.

  Silence.

  “What the hell just happened?” Chavez whispered.

  “He got the visit he was worried about.”

  “And us?”

  “They must’ve assumed he was running from them. Let’s get out of here before they think twice.”

  48

  JACK HEARD his computer chime, indicating a new e-mail message. He scanned it once, then again. “Hello there…” He picked up the phone, called Rick Bell, told him what he had, and a few moments later they were on a conference call with Sam Granger.