“So what can you tell me about the situation? A lot of things have changed since I was here last.”
“When Big Eddie died, there was a battle for control of The Crossroads. Whoever controls this place runs Central Asia. The Russian Mafia and the Triads lost a lot of men, as did the other factions that joined in. It was chaos. A situation which Exodus loved. While The Crossroads was unavailable, the evil which feeds upon this place was stymied. It was a glorious, but for all too short time. By the way, thank you for killing such a terrible man.”
“Yeah, I’m all about making the world a better place.”
Ibrahim swirled his tea and studied it. “Then after a few months of fighting, a new group arrived here. A man had taken the name of Sala Jihan, the Pale Man. Are you familiar with the old tales?”
“A little. Mostly campfire stories to scare little kids. Eat your vegetables or the Pale Man will come and get you, that kind of crap.”
“Yes, the Pale Man supposedly terrorized this land a thousand years ago. Born of human mother and sired by the devil, he reigned with blood and fire. His slave armies crushed everything in their path.” Ibrahim paused to take a drink. “He was a force of incredible evil. Finally, he was defeated by a great Mongol prince and imprisoned deep beneath the earth, but the local tribes maintain a tradition. There is a prophecy that someday he will return and reclaim his throne of blood.”
I laughed. “Don’t tell me you think this is the same guy?”
Ibrahim smirked. “No, of course not, but I think we are dealing with a very talented and evil man, who took the name of someone the locals are already terrified of and used that to his own advantage. In the many years I’ve been in the Order, I’ve never seen a man such as this. His people came into this valley, and within three days he had utterly defeated the Mafia and the Triads. He impaled many of them on stakes in front of their houses, declared peace, and moved into the old base on the mountain. He’s gotten the money flowing again, so the other factions are happy . . . for now.”
“Think we could use that for our advantage?”
Ibrahim shrugged. “With as many spies as there are in this place, I’m hesitant to approach anyone. Certainly one faction would love to take Jihan’s place, but as they say, it is the nail that sticks up that gets hammered down. Big Eddie’s old faction, now called the Montalban Exchange after his real identity became known, seems like the most likely candidate to attempt a coup. It is led by one of Eddie’s former lieutenants. They have a reputation for ruthlessness. Frankly, I don’t care who takes over afterward, but Jihan must die. In the last year, he has systematically enslaved tens of thousands.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Some things I do not joke about, my friend.” Ibrahim reached into his shirt and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It was a map of Asia. There were hundreds of red dots scattered around the map. “Each of those dots is, or was, a village. Jihan contacts the local governments, finds out who the troublemakers are, and then makes them go away. The Chinese hate the northern Uyghur minority, for example, so should one of their villages be raided, they do not care.”
“That’s a lot of dots.”
“The youngest men are taken into his army and brainwashed as child soldiers. You will see them around town. Their faces are disfigured with a branding iron. He keeps a garrison at his base and uses them as guards over the mines. Do not let the fact they are slaves cause you to underestimate them.”
“I’ve dealt with child soldiers in Africa. I know the deal.”
“Not like this, you do not. His indoctrination techniques are very effective. The young women are sold internationally, through the various factions, for uses which I’m sure you understand. Everyone else works in the mines.”
“I saw the mines from my hotel window,” I said patiently. “You can’t tell me there’s ten thousand people housed there.”
“Obviously not. There’s a fifty percent fatality rate in the first month. The bodies are thrown into a very large hole . . .” He must have seen the look of disgust cross my face. “He works them to death, weeds out the unsuitable, and replaces them with more. Are you certain you still want to go home if your brother is dead?”
“I’m not a good guy, Ibrahim. That’s a job for guys like you and Valentine. My concern is me and mine. That’s it. People like me don’t adopt causes.”
“Not the most honorable philosophy.”
“It’s kept me alive.” I shrugged. “And your assets?”
“I have a few swords here. The others are staged in Mongolia, waiting for me to summon them.” He smiled, knowing that I knew he was being purposefully vague as to their strength. I didn’t even know how many men made up a sword.
“So what are you waiting for?”
“There are others available. They’re wrapping up their tasks and then coming here. In the meantime, we’re trying to gather as much intelligence as possible. We will need every man possible. We believe there are several hundred slave soldiers guarding Jihan’s fortress.”
“ETA?”
Ibrahim smiled again. “And I tell you this, and you find in your meeting with Jihan, that perhaps he would be willing to trade your brother for information about a gang of assassins plotting against him? Please, Mr. Lorenzo. The only way you will know our plans is if you volunteer to accompany us. No offense.”
“None taken.” This was business after all. “One other question. Who are the Brothers?”
“You saw one?” he asked. I nodded. “They are the Pale Man’s elite personal guards. Since they never show their faces, never speak in public, and always dress the same, we don’t know how many there are, but they enforce his rule in town. Everyone is scared of them. They are brutal.”
“How many would you estimate there really are?”
“There are at least three.”
I snorted. “Three goofy little bastards have managed to terrorize a town full of psychos, murderers, and hired thugs?”
He smiled at me. “You saw one, so I’m assuming you saw him murder someone.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Because that’s the only time you see them. If they reveal themselves, then somebody is about to die. Trust me, Mr. Lorenzo, the Brothers are very good at what they do. They and a small garrison of perhaps twenty slave soldiers have kept the factions from warring more effectively than hundreds of Big Eddie’s mercenaries ever did. You must understand, this is a superstitious place, and Jihan has used that as a weapon. Do not underestimate his forces. These are not the back-country thugs you might be expecting. So, what is your plan?”
“We have a business a meeting scheduled for tomorrow at the fortress. I’m going to—” There was a sudden loud crash at the front of the bar, followed by a lot of shouting in Mongolian. Two people seated near the entrance stood and headed directly back toward us. I placed my hand on my pistol, but Ibrahim signaled for me to wait.
“They’re friends. What is it?”
The first spoke. “Montalban Exchange is starting some trouble out front. They’re looking for somebody and want to come in.” He was a handsome young man, and surprisingly enough had a bland American accent. “They’re led by that big Viking-looking dude.”
The second was a female, with the hood of her coat up, and a scarf covering the lower half of her face. She had really pretty blue eyes. “The Mongols disagree.” She sounded Russian. “I think they’re going to fight.” She discreetly took a Makarov from inside her coat and placed it in an outside pocket, so it would be easier to shoot some unsuspecting sap.
“We’d best be going then.” Ibrahim stood. “Mr. Lorenzo, this is Svetlana and Roland, two of my sword. You can reach us through the Glorious Cloud should you have any further information you wish to share. We’ll be in touch. May Allah grant you good fortune on your mission.”
Chapter 12: The Greatest Trick
the Devil Ever Pulled
LORENZO
Sala Jihan’s Fortress
March 13th
A weather-beaten statue of Stalin looked out over the valley. The concrete features had been mostly obliterated by wind and rain, but even then the blank eyes of the Man of Steel seemed to follow us as we drove past.
A Land Cruiser had picked us up in front of the Glorious Cloud, exactly on time. The driver was a young man with a large brand scar on each cheek. He had not said a single word the entire thirty-minute trip. None of us spoke either. Jill was nervous. I wanted to reach over and squeeze her hand, but that would have been out of character for a translator and his boss, so I refrained.
The road skirted the edge of the river and passed through the old dry lake bed before climbing into the mountains. The terrain at this altitude consisted of rock and scrub brush. There was no way to approach without being seen. The maps showed a possible path through the mountains to the back of the fortress, but it was impassable for vehicles and would be a difficult trek on foot.
The walls were tall, thick concrete. Guards paced atop, watching our approach through binoculars. The walls were too smooth to scale, and too tall to hit with ladders. Our driver steered the Land Cruiser between concrete barricades designed to keep a truck bomb from getting a good run at the entrance. The steel gate was already open, waiting for us. I noted the thickness of the gates as we passed through. Short of a tank or a whole lot of explosives, I didn’t see Exodus getting through that quickly either.
Through the tinted glass of the Land Cruiser, I could see that the inside of the fortress was made up featureless concrete bunkers, each with its own heavy steel doors and narrow, metal-shuttered windows that served as firing ports. There was a raised concrete landing pad, sufficient for a few helicopters, though nothing was parked there now. The snow suggested that nothing had landed there all winter.
Reaper was gawking at something out his window. Behind the landing pad was a small hill with a tank parked on top of it. Shit. That’s no tank. Instead of a single large barrel poking out of the turret, it had four smaller barrels and a rotating radar dish on top. It was a ZSU-23, a nasty antiaircraft machine, and unlike most of the military equipment rotting in this part of the world, it appeared well maintained. Four 23mm autocannons would rip the hell out of anything Exodus tried to land here.
The Land Cruiser stopped, and our doors were immediately opened for us by waiting staff. None of them would make eye contact. Behind them were more emotionless child soldiers. The oldest was maybe sixteen. They were of various ethnicities, but all were dressed in snow camouflage, wearing some sort of load-bearing vest, and carrying an AK or SKS. Each one had savage burn scars on their cheeks or forehead.
“Greetings and welcome.” A muscular man in a business suit approached. His face was unscarred. He was here voluntarily. “I am Talak Aziz. I will be your escort during your visit here. After so many e-mails it is a pleasure to meet you in person, Ms. Garcia and Mr. Cook.” He nodded at Jill and Reaper. I smoothly translated everything that he said into Spanish. Jill smiled and nodded as Talak gestured us toward the entrance of the largest bunker. “You will need to go through our security check, for your own protection, of course.”
“Of course,” Jill responded.
The soldiers gave us a thorough pat-down and even had a metal detecting wand. A woman checked Jill. We had left everything dangerous, sharp, pointy, or flammable at the hotel. This meeting was just to gather intelligence on our foe, nothing more.
Satisfied that we weren’t assassins, Aziz took us inside. The entryway for this bunker had been decorated with expensive Persian rugs and Japanese landscape paintings. It was surprisingly nice compared to the stark exterior. A slave girl took our coats and disappeared. We were led through the bunker to a meeting room set up in much the same manner as the entrance, and we were seated on cushions. Talak remained standing as he introduced us to the men in European business suits who were already waiting. I struggled to keep up and to correctly pronounce everyone’s name. They were all older, professional, and had that stink of dirty money on them.
I was disappointed. These were Jihan’s functionaries, the guys that actually handled the business end of things, the money changers, the accountants. They were here to discuss the exchange of slave-mined ore for cash, and the shipment thereof to our subsidiaries for processing. They were talking dollars a ton and how much different countries’ customs officials cost to bribe. I wanted to meet The Man.
Jill did a superb job. Reaper had coached her well. She played the part of a junior executive whiz-kid rather well. Her nervousness was actually perfect, because to Jihan’s functionaries it read as her being scared about brokering a big-money deal. She was the only woman in the room. They probably thought she was the negotiator because she was pretty. Jill knew nothing about the technical end of things, wire transfers, transportation, amounts required, and the methods of exchange, which was obvious to the functionaries, but she wasn’t supposed to. That’s where Reaper came in. He didn’t look like much, but if he hadn’t damaged it with all the death metal and Red Bull he’d probably have an IQ up around Stephen Hawking’s. He’d memorized every mineral-business-related factoid known to man in the last few weeks.
Meanwhile I looked unimportant, translated, and soaked up everything I possibly could about these people and their operation. Aziz was doing the same thing as me. You could hang a fancy suit on a killer gorilla, but it was always going to be a killer gorilla at heart.
Jill and Reaper wasted an hour butting heads with the hirelings, but it was a waste of time. I had only gotten a look at the security arrangements for a few seconds. This was not helping our mission at all. We hadn’t fabricated an entire corporation, wired millions of my own money into it, and come all this way to look at spreadsheets.
Jill must have been feeling the same way. “My superiors were hoping that I could meet this Sala Jihan.” As I translated that last bit, the hirelings stiffened up. Talak shifted nervously. “He’s a very mysterious figure.”
“Ms. Garcia, I’m afraid that will not be possible,” stammered one of the functionaries. “Sala Jihan does not participate in these sorts of activities. He is a very busy man, and has engaged us to represent him.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be proper,” said an older Chinese man with a bad hairpiece. “We can assure you that we are fully vested with authority—”
Jill held up her hand. “And I can assure you, gentlemen, I am here to arrange the purchase of millions of dollars of precious metals a year from your operation. My superiors insisted that I not agree to anything until I have met the head of your organization in person.”
“As you are aware, Sala Jihan’s methods are different than what you are used to in the west.” I tried not to chuckle as I translated that. No shit.
“Meaning that he uses slave labor?” Jill replied. The men shifted awkwardly. “We’re fully aware of that, but we’re expecting an emerging demand for copper that is unprecedented from the Indian market this year, and my company intends to fill that need. We don’t care about the slaves. We care about building a long-term relationship so we can make a lot of money before one of our competitors grows the balls to come here themselves. You are sitting on billions, but you’re limited to what you can sell through greedy mobsters. My company is offering a legitimate distribution channel. We feel the profit opportunity outweighs the possible negative press, but my superiors don’t even know that Sala Jihan is real. I meet him, or there will be no deal.”
The hirelings looked at each other, fearful of losing this deal, but more scared of contacting their boss. Talak actually choked when I translated cojones. He spoke up. “I will inquire if the Master is available. In the meantime, please continue with your negotiations.” The big man left the room.
The meeting continued, only now that they knew Jill was playing hardball, it was a lot more heated. Ironically, since our entire operation was imaginary, Jill was having quite a bit of fun sticking it to them and playing up the heartless corporation angle. Twenty minutes later the door slid o
pen and Talak entered, looking rather grim.
“The Master will see you now.”
The trip across the compound alone was worth it. I was able to see more of the security, where the interior choke points were, where the vehicles were parked, and and where the guards slept. All of that would be good stuff to pass on to Ibrahim. Most importantly, I was able to spot which building had been the Russian brig. A handful of prisoners watched us from the other side of the bars with eyes pleading for mercy. It was very possible that—if he was still alive—Bob was inside that prison building. I scanned every window, but unfortunately didn’t see a single giant, bald Caucasian.
Talak took us to a concrete slab with an elevator shed on top of it. Behind the shed was a giant circular depression in the snow. A Brother stood to the side of the door, studying us with goggled eyes, arms folded, and weapons slung over his back.
“He seriously lives in a missile silo?” Reaper asked. Talak didn’t bother to respond, he only nodded at the guard, who continued to watch us soundlessly. The faceless black mask was strangely intimidating, but he stepped out of our path.
The elevator car was basically a steel frame with a mesh wire floor to stand on and handrails to hold on to, and a giant exposed pulley above us. It swayed dangerously as we stepped into it. Talak picked up a wired control box and punched the down button. With a lurch, the car began to descend. It was dark and strangely humid inside the shaft.
“I cannot promise a long visit,” Talak explained, only his eyes and teeth really showed up in the dark. There wasn’t a single light installed on the car. “He is a very busy man and agrees to speak with very few. You are rather fortunate.”
“That will be quite all right,” Jill responded after I translated, obviously agitated. I had forgotten that she was a little bit claustrophobic.
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