by Glenn Rogers
Again, Cornford showed me a photo of the target. The camp was a beehive of activity: physical conditioning, weapons training, strategy sessions. Older men were in conference, younger men were digging, building, moving equipment.
A small dust cloud in the distance told us vehicles were approaching. There were two. The lead vehicle was an old Russian army transport vehicle, probably abandoned by the Russians when they left. The second vehicle was a beat up Toyota 4-Runner.
The vehicles came into the middle of the camp and stopped. Four men got out. My target was one of them. Several of the older men approached and welcomed them.
“Got him?” Cornford asked, peering through his scope.
“Got him.”
“Take the shot.”
I fired. The target went down. Everyone else ducked for cover and by the time they decided where the shot had come from and began returning fire in our general direction, we were in our vehicle and on our way out of the area.
Those were the missions that had involved the CIA. Did one of those kills have something to do with Monica being taken? Hopefully, Cornford would be able to shed some light on the subject.
As my thoughts came back to the present, I realized that Wilson had gotten up on the sofa and was asleep next to me with his head resting on my leg. I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. I gave Wilson a scratch behind the ear and he looked up at me with one of those is it morning already? looks.
“Time for bed,” I said.
He jumped down and went to his large pillow at the foot of my bed. I turned out the lights and was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
Sleep had come quickly, but a dream disturbed it. In my dream, I was in Afghanistan again. Monica was with me. We were relaxing in a meadow, enjoying a picnic. I kissed her. But the kiss was interrupted as we were transported to a site in the hills, the kind of strategic site from where I would carry out my missions. I was looking through my scope at the dead bodies of my targets—three of them. As I watched, their spirits left their bodies, and with faces contorted with hate, flew to our position, snatched up Monica and carried her away. I tried to fight them, but my hands passed though their otherworldly forms. They, however, were able to capture and fly away with Monica. She called out for help. None came. I was powerless. I could only watch as they spirited her away. The dream seemed to be caught in a loop, repeating over and over again.
Chapter 33
Sunday Evening
My flight arrived in Vegas at seven. My meeting was at nine. I'd had a late lunch so I hadn’t yet had dinner. I rented a car and pointed it in the general direction of the Strip. I found a McDonald’s and tried to relax while enjoying a simple meal. I had just finished eating when my dad called.
“How are you, Son?” the electronic voice asked.
“Physically, I'm doing okay. Emotionally, I'm struggling to hold it together.”
I waited while he typed.
“It must be very difficult. I'm sure I can't even imagine.”
“It's not like anything I've ever experienced before.”
There was a brief pause and then he began typing. Emotions were never easy for my father, or for me for that matter. As I had gotten older, I realized that in some ways I was a lot like him. At first, that realization was unsettling. But then I began to take stock of my father’s life. He was a brilliant and accomplished man. Perhaps being like him in some respects wasn’t such a bad thing.
“Well,” he had typed, “I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking about you. I have not called more often because I knew you were trying to concentrate and I did not want to be a distraction. But I am thinking about you all the time. And Monica, too. I like her.”
Emotions began to surge and I had to fight to maintain control.
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that. I… I love Monica.” I don’t know why I felt I needed to tell him, but I did.
“I know.”
“I'm gonna find her.”
“I know that, too, Son. And that is what you must do. You do whatever you have to do to find and save the woman you love.”
Hearing my father say that to me brought a new surge of emotion, but of a different kind: an anger at the one who took her, a determination to find her and to punish the one did this.
“That's what I intend to do, Dad. That's what I intend to do.”
The Red Square Bar was as much a restaurant and lounge as it was a bar. It was beautifully designed and decorated, reminiscent of a Russian bar from the early nineteen hundreds, the kind of place a Russian aristocrat might have frequented before the communists took over. As beautiful as it was, I was a little disappointed. I’d imagined something more cloak and dagger, like something in a Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler novel. The actual bar was on the right side of the expensively decorated room. I found an empty seat and sat down at five of nine and waited. At nine, Cornford took the seat next to me. He looked like a guy who might work in a hardware store on Main Street, USA. He was so average looking that he could walk down a street and no one would notice or remember him. Probably the look he was going for.
“Been a long time, Jake,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
“You look well,” I said.
“Can't complain.”
The bartender came down to us.
“What'll you have?” he asked.
“Absolut.”
The bartender nodded and looked at me. I was having Coke Zero. I nodded for another.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“That's why we're here, isn't it?”
“Yeah, but this is a different question.”
He shrugged. “Ask.”
“Why are we meeting at the Red Square Bar in Las Vegas?”
He smiled. “My wife and I are here on vacation. We're staying at this hotel. It was convenient.”
I didn't know if he was yanking my chain or not. “Gambling?” I asked.
“Nope. We don't gamble. We like the shows and the restaurants. I like the magic shows, mostly. My wife wanted to see Cirque Du Soleil and the Blue Man Group.”
He must have seen something in my face. He turned his hands palms up and said, “What, an operative can't have a normal life?”
“You just never struck me as a magic show kind of a guy,” I said.
“That's me. Mr. Mysterious.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So,” Cornford said, getting our meeting back on track, “a friend of mine who knows a friend of yours says you think someone connected to one of our missions in Afghanistan may be looking for payback.”
I explained about Monica being taken and about our search thus far. I told him about the notes and about the latest one that said, Afghanistan.
He sipped his vodka and said, “Sounds like someone is using her as bait to pull you in.”
I nodded.
“And you want me to talk to you about our three missions in Afghanistan.”
I nodded.
“How many kills you have by the time you came home?”
“One hundred twenty-eight.”
“So why do you want to focus in on our three?”
“Because our three were high value CIA targets. And if those guys were important enough for the CIA to want to eliminate them, then they were important enough to have powerful friends, friends who would be in a position to take this kind of action at this time and place.”
He took another sip of Vodka and nodded, more to himself than to me.
“The first one was Abdullah Zadran. As you probably guessed, all those poppies were made into high-grade heroin. He sold to American buyers. Used the money to support the Taliban.”
“Who were the American buyers?” I asked.
“We think the bulk of it went to two organizations: Dominick Ferro's group, and Reggie Murphy's group.”
“Where are these two groups located?”
“Ferro's in New York; Murphy's in Boston. But they have distributorships all over the country.”
<
br /> “That mission was almost seven years ago,” I said. “You think they might still be so pissed off at me for eliminating their source that they would take Monica in order to get to me?”
“It's theoretically possible ... but it doesn't feel right. I suspect they had a new supplier within a couple of weeks. Going after a marine for a CIA hit seven years ago doesn't feel right. But then, you never know.”
I agreed with him. That one just didn't feel right.
“What about the other two?” I asked.
“The second one was Elias Durrani.”
“The young man,” I said.
“Yeah. Elias was the son of Malik Durrani, a wealthy Afghan businessman who immigrated to the US in 1977. He was wealthy when he came. Used his money to make a lot more money. Wife's name is Bahara. Elias was born here in 1978. When he graduated from college, his parents gave him millions. Then he got radicalized. Some local imam. Parents didn't know it. He moved his money to offshore accounts in the Caymans and went off to fight for the cause. Read a lot of books on war strategy. He was smart and rich and was advising the Taliban, making our job a lot harder. So we took him out. I'm sure you remember that part.”
“His father hated what his son had done. Said he got what he deserved for betraying his country. The mother... well she didn't agree with her husband.”
“How do you know this?”
“Rich Afghanis living in the US, in a position to help the Taliban? Got to watch them. Pay attention to what they're doing.”
“Listening?”
“Phone and email,” he said.
“Where do they live?”
“Bel Air. Husband's vey sick, though. Cancer. Hasn't got much time left.”
“When you say the wife didn't agree with her husband, what do you mean, exactly?”
“She was angry. Hurt. Her son had been killed in what she considered to be a war of unjust aggression.”
“She angry enough to try to do something about it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “An angry mother. Who knows what she's gonna do?” He got the bartender's attention and pointed to his empty glass.
“She still angry?” I asked.
“Based on her phone conversations and emails, doesn't appear to be. Mostly she's focused on her husband.”
I finished my first Coke and took a sip of the second one. The bartender looked at me after he refilled Cornford's vodka. I shook my head. I sipped my Coke as I thought. I wasn't sure about Mrs. Durrani. A woman with a dying husband. What were the odds she'd come after me for a combat kill seven years ago? Of course, from her point of view, time is irrelevant. Seven years ago or seven days ago, I killed her son. I was the guy who pulled the trigger.
Cornford sipped his vodka. He seemed to enjoy it a great deal.
“If this is a revenge thing,” I asked, “why target me? Why not go after you or the CIA in general?”
“Well, they can't find me. I'm a ghost. And the CIA is an amorphous entity. Can't ever really get a handle on it. But you, you're a tangible. You're the guy who pulled the trigger. And you're just one guy. Easy to find, easy to get to.”
“How do they know I'm the guy who pulled the trigger? Aren't mission details classified?”
“Sure. But if you have enough money and enough contacts, any piece of information is available. You know that.”
He was right. I did know that.
“So,” I said, “someone paid to find out who pulled the trigger and are now looking for payback.”
“Assuming the scenario is correct,” he said.
“The notes I've been getting seem to suggest it is,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “The notes. That part bother you?”
Chapter 34
Sunday Evening, Monday Morning
“That part bothers me a lot,” I said.
“They're using ... What's her name?”
“Monica.”
“They're using Monica as bait. And if you take the bait, you'll be walking into a trap.”
“I know.”
He sipped some of his Absolut and thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “You're good, Jake. Are you good enough?”
“We'll see, won't we?”
“You need help?”
“You offering?”
“Yes.”
I studied him a moment. “I appreciate that, Thomas... Or whatever your real name is.”
He smiled.
“I really do. But I think I've got that part covered.”
He nodded.
“We haven't talked about the third mission, yet,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “The third mission. That was an important one. Ahmad Marwat. A double agent. He was supposed to be giving information about the Taliban to us. Turns out he was giving information about us to them. Not good.”
“If you were in my place and trying to figure out if they were the ones who did this, who would you ask about it?”
He thought for a moment, accessing the huge database in his head. After a moment, he said, “There's an Afghani imam in L.A. An informant for us. Something of a double agent. Goes by the name Emal Wardak. He knows what the Taliban in the US is doing.”
He gave me the address of the mosque where Wardak led prayers.
“I'll get in touch with him and let him know he needs to meet with you. He'll call you and set it up. Give me your cell.”
I gave him one of my cards.
He looked at it and said, “Give me another. One for him, one for me.”
Cornford sampled some more of his Absolut.
“So if this is somehow related to taking out one of their double agents,” I said, “they're putting ideology aside and engaging in good old fashion revenge.”
“Religious zealots,” he said, “are subject to human weakness just like the rest of us.”
“And again, instead of going after the CIA, they're coming after me.”
“Like I said, the agency is an amorphous entity. You're a tangible.”
“I should have listened to my father and become a lawyer.”
He laughed a hardy laugh and said, “Navy pinstripe suit and a briefcase? No. Can't see it. You're a warrior, Jake. Be who you are. Go get her.”
He took a card from his pocket, wrote a number on the back of it, shoved it over to me and said, “You need help, call me.”
He offered his hand. I shook it. He walked out of the bar.
It was a quarter to ten when I left the hotel. I thought about getting a room and spending the night but decided against it. I drove to the airport and found a red eye flight back to L.A. that had some open seats. I got home a little after two.
I had left Wilson with Heidi, so I woke her to collect him. I apologized for the late hour. She said not to worry about it and assured me that I could wake her up whenever I wanted. Heidi would forever be offering and I would forever be ignoring her, tiny little nighty and all.
A few hours later, Wilson and I were up for our run. After breakfast we went to the office, arriving just before eight. I put on coffee for Mildred and tea for me. Alex called at eight fifteen and said he was on his way.
Before Alex arrived, I got an email from Cornford. He said he spoke with Emal Wardak and explained the urgency. The imam would be calling this morning to schedule a meeting. I sent a thank you reply to Cornford, and a couple of minutes later my cell phone rang.
“Jake Badger,” I answered.
“Mr. Badger. Emal Wardak. Do you know Homeboy Diner in L.A. at the courthouse?”
“Yes.”
“Twelve fifteen. I will be wearing traditional Afghani dress. If there are other Afghanis dressed in traditional garb, I will be the one eating a tuna sandwich.”
“Twelve fifteen,” I said. “Homeboy Diner.”
He clicked off, and a minute later Alex arrived. Wilson went to the front door to greet him. Alex gave him a cookie and then came through the open French doors to my side of the office, put a box of Krispy Kreme donuts on my desk, and poured h
imself a cup of coffee. He helped himself to a donut and sat down in one of my guest chairs. I took a donut for myself as Alex took a bite of his and sipped his coffee.
“Cornford give you anything helpful?” he asked, around the bite of donut.
“He did. We need to go to Bel Air this morning and be at Homeboy Diner in L.A. by noon. Twelve fifteen, actually.”
“Who we going to see in Bel Air?”
I explained about Malik and Bahara Durrani and their son Elias as I looked up their address online. They lived on Stone Canyon Road.
“So you want to pay them a visit and introduce yourself and see how they react.”
“Something like that.”
We each had another donut and by the time we finished, Mildred arrived. I happened to be looking at my bank of security monitors and saw her approaching the front door. Watching her made me smile. She was sixty-seven but still moved like a much younger woman. She was decisive, intentional. After she put her things down, she came into my side of the office and poured herself a cup of coffee and took a donut.
“I think Krispy Kreme donuts should be part of our regular morning ritual,” Mildred said.
Wilson woofed. When I looked at him, he looked at the donuts. So I gave him one.
“See,” Mildred said, “Wilson agrees with me.”
I told her we'd try to be back before she left at thee. She said she'd hold down the fort and call me if anything important came up. It was nine ten when we left. We took my Jeep.
Chapter 35
Monday Morning
The drive to Bel Air took about thirty minutes. Alex and I talked part of the time, but even while we were talking, I was thinking that this was Monday. Monica had been missing a whole week. Seven days. Seven days of what? Was she safe? Was she too warm or too cold? Was she hungry? Thirsty? Did she have a restroom available? Had she been hurt during the capture? Did she need medical attention? Was she angry with me for not having found her yet? Had she given up hope?
Every thought I had about her assumed that she was alive. I couldn't contemplate anything else. She had to be alive, and I had to find her. I would find her. And I'd find her alive. I knew that, because whoever took her wanted me to find her. They wanted me and were using her to get me. That was the reason for the notes. Once they had me, they planned on killing us both. But they wouldn't kill her until they had me. I was sure of it. But to find her and then to rescue her without getting either of us killed, I had to stay focused, to remained detached, logical. I needed to do my job.
