A pencil-thin beam of red light sliced the darkness.
The Afghan commander had given the signal for the attack. Answering blinks came from the Marines spread out around the compound. The Afghans crawled like crabs over the ridge, then ran, crouched-over, toward the gate. The DEA agents and the dog and handler were behind the Afghan agents. The Marines moved in to establish a cordon around the compound.
The Afghan agents forced the front door of the main building. Shouts could be heard in Pashto, ordering someone to surrender. Moments later the Afghans prodded a short bearded man out of the house. The leader of the Afghan narcs came over to Murphy, frowning like a big-game hunter who had only bagged a rabbit.
“This man says he’s only a caretaker. The one we are looking for isn’t here. Only a few women and children.”
“Keep an eye on the old guy and we’ll check out the house,” Murphy said.
The commander turned the job of room-to-room search over to the DEA and the Marine canine team, who went in first with Murphy and his teammate right behind them. They cleared the building without incident except for some screams as they entered the main living space where some women and children were huddled.
Murphy called the Afghan commander on his hand radio. Moments later, the commander appeared with a couple of police who spoke to the women and herded them into a room that had already been secured. The dog, a German shepherd, strained at his leash, pulling his handler toward a door off the main room. The dog sniffed loudly along the bottom of the door. His tail wagged with excitement.
Murphy kicked the door in, leveraging all the strength in his six-foot-three frame. He followed the leveled barrel of his shotgun into the room and found it unoccupied. The dog plunged ahead, dashing toward a pile of cloth bags. A quick swipe from Murphy’s knife showed that the bags contained heroin. Other bags held hundreds of pounds of hashish.
Another door led from the room to an opium lab, where he found evidence that IEDs were assembled in the same space, linking the kingpin to the Taliban.
A voice crackled over the radio. The Marines had spotted someone trying to escape from the compound and were chasing after him. Murphy told his teammate and the Afghan commander to help the Marines, that he’d stay with the detained caretaker.
When he was alone with the old man, he spoke to him in Pashto.
“Who are they chasing, Abe?” he said.
The man, who had been hunched over, straightened to his full height and a crooked grin came to his lips. “I ordered my caretaker to escape, knowing he would run into your Marines.”
“Pretty smart, Abe. What isn’t smart is the fact that you’ve been lying to me about your operation.”
“I wouldn’t cheat you. I’ve been sending your cut of every shipment.”
“You’ve been shaving the payments,” Murphy said. “That’s not holding up your end of the agreement.”
“Maybe, but I’m not the only one who has failed to keep his word. You were supposed to warn me of the raid.”
“And you were supposed to keep your operation out of politics. No support for the insurgents.”
“I have to pay them a little to keep the operation going. Not much.”
“Not talking about the baksheesh. You’re making IEDs, and that makes you Taliban, instead of a plain old drug lord.”
The grin vanished. “I was forced—”
“Not buying it,” Murphy said in English. “I saw your boom-boom lab. You’re one of the bad guys. Those Marines out chasing your man have been hit hard by your little surprise packages.”
“No one in Afghanistan has clean hands. Not even you. If I’m arrested, I will have to tell them about our arrangement all these years.”
“That’s why I’m not going to arrest you. I’m going to let you go.”
“You won’t regret this,” Abe said, a sly look in his eyes.
Murphy waited until Abe was heading for the shadows before he squeezed the trigger of his shotgun. The pellet blast caught the fleeing man dead center in the back. His arms flew in the air and he pitched forward onto the ground face first.
“I know I won’t,” Murphy said.
He went off to rejoin the rest of the strike force and encountered them escorting the terrified caretaker back to the compound. He explained to Chavez and the narc commander that the detainee had tried to get away, but in the dim light, he had misjudged his warning shot.
No one really cared as long as no citizens were killed. They had neutralized a drug and weapons factory and captured a potential informant, all with no casualties. The strike force was in a good mood on the trek back to the patrol base.
A CH-47 helicopter came in and gave the DEA men and the Afghan narcs and their prisoner a ride back to Kabul. A couple of hours after the operation, Murphy was in his apartment showering, washing the desert dust out of his short, straw-colored hair. He wrapped a towel around himself, poured a glass half full of Makers’ Mark whiskey and contemplated the day’s events.
The whole operation and his exchange with Abe had been nothing more than a charade to set up the drug lord’s elimination.
Murphy didn’t care how cozy Abe had been with the Taliban as long as he’d proved a source of revenue. But Abe had been skimming off the take, and Murphy couldn’t let word get around that he could be cheated with impunity. Only thing now was that Abe’s loss would cut off a supply of cash.
No matter. The payment for the job would help his bottom line. And he would easily cultivate another source: Afghanistan produced 90 percent of the world’s opium and exported more heroin than Colombia exported cocaine.
He downed the contents of the glass and turned his attention to the second part of his assignment.
He started up his computer and gazed with hard blue eyes at the photograph of Matt Hawkins on the monitor. The photo had come from the Woods Hole Oceanographic website. The old Hawk had aged pretty well, whereas Murphy’s broad face was weathered and crevassed from the effects of hard living. Even without the booze and women, and the blasting sunlight, the dangerous life of a DEA agent had etched premature age lines around his mouth and eyes. He experienced a rush of resentment. Hell, while he’d been chasing down drug traffickers and insurgents as many as two to three times a week, the Hawk had been leading the small town life. Not that he would ever underestimate Hawkins.
He actually liked Hawkins. He was a ballsy, competent and resourceful bastard. But the same admirable qualities made him dangerous. And now Hawkins was headed back to Afghanistan. It was a no-brainer what he would do when he got there. He would try to find out what happened years before. The trail would have led to Abe, then to Murphy, and eventually to those Swiss bank accounts.
Murphy didn’t need anyone to tell him Hawkins could simply not be allowed to get that far. He would have to stop him again, although this time he would make sure Hawkins was put away for good.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hawkins stood in the doorway of his darkened study and felt the cool night breeze from the shattered window against his cheeks. The salty air mingled with another, more disturbing smell. He flipped the wall switch and light from the recessed ceiling lamps flooded the room. At his feet was a dark pool of drying blood that had soaked through to the wooden floor. The rug itself was missing.
His hard gaze assessed the damage. The bullet-riddled desk might be patched with a ton of wood putty, but the walking beer cooler that had distracted the twin gunmen had gone to robot heaven. The little figure lay on its back, its bulbous aluminum skin perforated with more holes than a colander.
He walked over to inspect his collection. Shards of glass from the display cabinets crackled under his boots. Dings and dents marred the shiny brass helmets. The main damage was to the book collection on the opposite wall. The cardboard covers and pages littered the floor like confetti.
The soft chime of a wall clock that had miraculously escaped dam
age told Hawkins he had no time to waste. He picked up the remains of the beer cooler and stored them in a closet. Then he got out a broom and dust pan, scooped glass and paper into a trash barrel, splashed bleach on the blood spot and mopped it up. He hauled the trash down to the basement and wrestled sheets of plywood from his lumber supply up to the study. He nailed the plywood over the window frame, using quick taps to minimize the sound of nocturnal hammering.
It looked like crap, but it would have to do. He’d get Snowy to replace the window glass. He went into the bathroom and washed out the cuts in his hand. As he dabbed the lacerations with antiseptic, he happened to glance in the mirror. No wonder the vet had seemed nervous. He looked like one of those crazed Norse warriors known as berserkers. His hair and beard were competing to see which most resembled a bramble bush.
Hawkins grabbed a pair of scissors and chopped away at his beard until he could finish it off with a straight razor. The prominent chin that emerged was whiter than the rest of his face, but a few days under the Afghan sun would change that.
He took a shower and changed into fresh jeans and shirt. Then he made a quick house survey and dashed out to his truck with duffle in hand. He made good time to Otis air base on the deserted back roads. The jet had already landed. He tucked the truck into a parking space and climbed into the plane’s cabin. The plane was taxiing down the runway for take-off as he buckled himself in.
Quickly gaining altitude, the plane cruised at four hundred miles per hour toward Washington. As the miles flicked by, Hawkins gazed through the window at the sparkling tapestry of cities and towns and tried to slow the thoughts churning around in his head. The would-be killers were not in Woods Hole by mistake. They knew who he was and where he lived. He knew only one reason he’d have a target on his chest.
Someone wanted to torpedo the Prester John mission.
More disturbing was the fact that someone knew about the assignment. So much for hush-hush security.
Borne out of desperation, his aim had been true and he had seen the dive knife strike one of the men in the chest. His eyes grew cold. He had no remorse over the kill. The destruction of property he could brush aside. Attempted murder and attacking a loyal pal like Quisset were not things he could forgive.
He called a number on his cell phone. “This is Hawkins,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, doctor, but I wondered how Quisset was doing.”
“No bother, Mr. Hawkins. I was about to call. They’re wrapping up the surgery as we speak. Your dog will live, but her skull was severely fractured and there may be some motor impairment from the brain damage. She might not be able to function normally. You might want to think of putting her down.”
“Not a chance, Doc.”
“Guess that’s a no. I’d probably do the same thing in your place. We’ll see what we can do to bring your friend up to snuff.”
“Thanks, Doc. Call me as soon as you know for sure.”
The vet started to go into the details of the surgery, but Hawkins had to cut him off. The pilot had announced that the plane was making its approach to Dulles.
The plane bumped down onto the tarmac and taxied past a line of FedEx and UPS cargo jets, stopping finally near a Boeing 747. The words: Global Logistics Technologies were printed in black on the pale blue fuselage. Parked next to the open cargo section of the jumbo jet was the truck that had picked up the submersible and his other gear in Woods Hole.
Hawkins climbed down the gangway to the tarmac and walked over to Abby who was standing near the 747. She was wearing a pale blue jumpsuit that emphasized rather than disguised her feminine curves, and her hair was tucked under a dark blue baseball hat. She noticed that Hawkins had shaved his beard.
“What happened to the chin fuzz?”
“It got caught in a lawn-mower.”
She reached out and stroked his jaw. “I like it. Never went for the werewolf look.” She went back to her iPad. “I was just going over the cargo manifest. We’re in good shape.”
Hawkins swept the long fuselage with his eyes.
“Nice of the President to let us borrow Air Force One.”
“Thought you’d like to travel in style. Global Logistics makes regular cargo runs to Kabul under government contract. I simply tweaked the schedule.”
“Some tweak,” Hawkins said. He was impressed but not surprised.
Abby had honed her talent for precision in the navy. The aircraft carrier she had served on was a moving base crowded with planes and the crews, where the slightest mistake could be fatal.
A cargo crew used a fork lift to load their gear onto a freight platform. Abby watched as the boxes were raised to the open cargo door and turned to Hawkins.
“Where’s Calvin?” she said. “We’re scheduled to take off in thirty minutes.”
Hawkins glanced as his watch. Hayes was running late. He called his friend on his cell phone and asked where he was.
“Hoo-Yah!” Hayes yelled. “ETA is im-mi-nent.”
Two pairs of headlights were approaching. A black Bentley was leading a flat-bed truck across the tarmac. The Bentley stopped next to the plane. Hayes hopped out of the car and waved in the truck, which expertly backed up to the loading platform.
The truck disgorged two men who had physiques like gorillas on steroids.
Hayes directed the unloading with shouts and arm waves. The men rolled the plastic-covered desert vehicle down a ramp at the back of the truck, and pushed it onto the cargo lift. A crew inside the plane took it from there.
Hayes peeled off some bills as payment. As the truck rumbled off, he strode over to Hawkins and Abby who had been watching the fast-moving process with amazement. He gave Hawkins a bear hug.
“Sorry I was late,” Hayes said. “Had to pick up snacks for the trip.” He stroked his chin. “You look different than the last time I saw you, Hawk. More clean-cut. Kinda like the two-toned skin.”
Hawkins was starting to regret having shaved off his beard. “Think of it as natural camouflage.”
Hayes let out a whooping laugh, then trotted over to the Bentley, tucked the car next to a storage shed and threw a protective cover over the top. He grabbed his duffle and joined Hawkins and Abby on the cargo lift. They entered the tunnel-like interior of the plane and walked past the desert vehicle, which had been parked next to stacks of cargo containers.
Abby led the way up a flight of stairs to the big passenger cabin under the fuselage hump. Instead of rows of seats, the cabin had been fitted with comfortable chairs and sofas that could be used as beds. They settled into the seats on either side of a small table. The massive Pratt and Whitney engines cranked into action and after a short warm-up, the plane taxied out onto the runway.
The pilot’s voice came over the speakers, and announced that they had been cleared for take-off. The plane accelerated down the runway and lifted off the tarmac, then climbed to thirty-five thousand feet and headed east at a speed of 565 miles per hour on the route that would take it to Istanbul. With a range of more than seven thousand nautical miles, the jet would need only one fueling stop before heading across Asia to Kabul. The plane would spend around fourteen hours in the air for the seven thousand mile flight.
Hayes volunteered to make breakfast. He pulled some plastic bags out of his duffle and rattled around in the galley. Mouth-watering fragrances soon filled the cabin. Cal served a breakfast gumbo made with potatoes and sausage, and a Cajun omelet folded over crabmeat and rice, all washed down with strong coffee. As they were eating, Abby noticed the bandage on Hawkins’ hand and asked about it.
“Cut myself on some window glass.” Hawkins drained his cup and took in his two breakfast companions. “Thanks for the meal, Cal. And I want to thank the both of you for agreeing to come along on this mission. I couldn’t ask for better back up.”
Hayes stretched his legs out and laced his hands behind his head.
“
Hell, Hawk. We should be thanking you. Flying first class on our own jumbo jet. Doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Before you pull out your flower shirt and sandals, I want to warn you that the mission has been compromised.”
He told them about the attempt to kill him, explaining in detail exactly how he had cut his hand on window glass.
“Any idea who these two guys were?” Hayes said.
“Never saw them before. Not even in my nightmares.”
“This is going to complicate things,” Abby said.
“It will definitely make the mission more dangerous. I’m giving you both the option of pulling out. I’ll tell Fletcher there’s been a leak, and tell him to go to Plan B.”
Hayes shook his head. “I’m in it if you are, Hawk.”
“Thanks, Cal. I’m still in as well, but I wish you’d reconsider your decision to go along, Abby.”
Abby arched an eyebrow.
“Do I have to pull rank on you again, Hawkins? I don’t do half-missions.”
Hawkins looked over at Hayes. “Can you talk some sense into her, Cal?”
“The lady’s got rank on me, too, Hawk.”
“Thank you, Calvin,” Abby said with a smug expression.
“But this is a fool’s mission,” Hawkins pressed. “I have my reasons for taking it, reasons that don’t concern you.”
She turned to Hayes. “Calvin, do you think this is a fool’s mission?”
Hayes greeted the question with a guffaw. “Every mission I’ve been on has been dumb-ass,” he said.
“Matt thinks we don’t know that he’s trying to manipulate us with a guilt trip for his own goals. Please tell your friend that we’re onto him. We know that the psycho discharge has eaten away at his brain all these years and that he’s going on a mission with crazy written all over it because he wants to find out why the navy threw him to the wolves.”
“I owe Hawk. I’d go along with anything he asked. I don’t care why he’s doing it.”
The Emerald Scepter Page 12
