by Scott McEwen
“Let’s meet at the usual place then.”
“You got it. See you there.”
Silverwood hung up the phone and then stood from his chair and went down the hall to find Warrant Officer Skelton sitting at her desk in her cramped little office. “May I come in?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, rising to offer him the chair in front of her desk.
Silverwood sat down and grinned at her. “Why are you always so straightlaced with me?”
“Sir?”
He chuckled, perhaps for the first time in months. “You’re more relaxed around the Army brass than you are around me? Why is that?”
She looked at him, very carefully considering her response. “Well, sir . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I know what to expect from ranking officers.”
“I see. Well, I’m flying home tonight, Elicia. You’ve given me the perfect excuse to leave you all in the lurch here, and I’m going to use it.”
“Sir?”
“I came down here to tell you I’m breaking with protocol. I’m not going to forward those DNA results directly to State. First, I’m giving them to an NCIS contact of mine. I’m guessing he’ll take them straight back to DEVGRU in Jalalabad. Have you kept up on what’s been happening with the Hezb-e Islami movement since we began our drawdown of forces?”
“Yes, sir. The Hezbis are growing like a weed, both the Gulbuddin and Khalis factions. That’s why the Army wanted to remove Aasif Kohistani. To keep him from—” Her eyebrows soared suddenly. “Wait a second! Kohistani has ties to the Waigal Valley—he was born there. But how could he have known we were preparing a raid?”
“Because the ISI guy we arrested yesterday has been feeding him information . . . and that’s classified, so don’t repeat it.” ISI was Pakistani intelligence, short for Inter-Services Intelligence.
“Holy cow,” she said. “The Hezb-e Islami parties have gained quite a few seats in the Afghan parliament. If they’re the ones who took Sandra, that could end up putting Karzai in a real spot. It could force him to choose sides against the US.”
“Very good,” he said. “You’re thinking. And that explains why his office was so quick with the offer to act as an intermediary for the ransom exchange.”
“You think Karzai already knows who has her?”
“I’m convinced of it, as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m back channeling this intel to DEVGRU. There’s something fundamentally wrong with this ransom demand. Sandra’s worth a lot more to these people than money. I refuse to believe that Kohistani’s too stupid to see that.”
Elicia felt her skin turn to gooseflesh. “You don’t think DEVGRU will act without orders, do you?”
He checked his watch and got to his feet. “Whether they will or not, I’m giving them the option. It’s very possible that DC already knows who has Sandra, and if that’s the case, your brilliant DNA research will likely wind up swept under the rug by the State Department.”
She stood up, a look of disillusionment in her eyes. “It seems all too possible now, doesn’t it?”
“Whatever you do, Elicia. Do not let on that you’ve put any of this together. When you’re asked, tell them you forwarded the results to me like you were supposed to.”
“Okay, sir. But . . . but if DEVGRU does take action, won’t State eventually figure out you were involved?”
“They might, but that will be my problem.”
She nodded reluctantly, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of him getting into trouble.
“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. “We probably won’t be seeing each other again, but I want you to know you’re an excellent investigator, and it’s been a pleasure working with you. You’ve a bright future with CID. Don’t jeopardize it by trying to cover my tracks.”
She smiled back, shaking his hand firmly. “We’re going to miss you around here, sir.”
11
LANGLEY
Deputy Director of Operations Cletus Webb was eating lunch in the CIA cafeteria with two of his assistants when he spotted Director Shroyer coming toward the table. He made eye contact, and the director stopped short, jerking his head back in the other direction as a signal for Webb to follow. Webb caught up to him at the elevator, and they stepped aboard, standing shoulder to shoulder as the doors closed.
“Breaking bread with the little people, are we?” Shroyer inquired dryly.
“They invited me,” Webb replied. “I didn’t have plans, and it felt rude not to accept.”
Shroyer grunted, inspecting his freshly manicured fingers. “The president’s ordered us to pay the ransom for Sandra Brux. Twenty-five million. I trust our people in Kabul have made the appropriate preparations?”
“Considering the players involved, this was anticipated, yes.”
“Good. Be sure our people log the serial numbers so we can track the bills,” Shroyer admonished. “We don’t need to be accused of playing Fast and Furious with twenty-five million dollars.”
Webb rolled his eyes. “It’s being done.”
Shroyer adjusted his trousers. “I’ve got Bob Pope waiting up in my office.” The director of the Special Activities Division of the CIA. “Due to the rumors we’re hearing, I want to make sure it’s understood that SOG is not to make any unilateral decisions over there should the enemy fail to deliver after we’ve paid Sandra’s ransom. It will be your job to keep SAD’s people on a short leash in the coming days.”
“And you expect me to accomplish this how exactly?” Webb wanted to know.
The elevator doors opened, and Shroyer turned to face him, his expression flat. “By making sure that Pope reminds his people as often as necessary exactly who the fuck they work for. Is that clear?”
“Oh, it’s certainly clear,” Webb replied. “I’m not so sure that SOG’s forgetfulness is likely to be the problem, but it’s certainly clear.”
Shroyer started to say something but, thinking better of it, stepped from the elevator and made his way toward his office with Webb in tow. They strolled one behind the other past Shroyer’s secretary and into the office where the SAD director sat waiting.
“Bob, you remember Cletus.”
Pope stood from the chair, offering his hand. “Of course. How are you, Cletus?” He was tall and slender with a head of thick, gray hair. His blue eyes were very intelligent looking behind his glasses, and he had a disarming, boyish kind of smile. He was the sort of man who always seemed to be half thinking of something else, no matter who was speaking to him or what their title.
“I’m good, thanks.” Webb took the chair beside Pope as Shroyer slipped in behind the desk.
“Sorry again for the delay, Bob,” Shroyer said, smoothing his tie. “Cletus’s secretary couldn’t find him because he was downstairs in the cafeteria . . . eating with the help.” All cellular calls were blocked within the building for security purposes.
Pope chuckled dutifully, and Webb smiled as benignly as he could.
“So,” Shroyer continued, “just to make sure we’re all on the same page here, Bob. The ransom for Sandra Brux is to be paid within the next twelve hours. Our people in Kabul are setting up the payment through an intermediary in President Karzai’s office. As you know, we need to help Karzai maintain his alliances within his government, a number of which are extremely fragile. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent parliamentary gains by both of the Hezb-e Islami factions in recent months.”
“Yes, I am. As a matter of fact, I sent you a brief ten months ago forecasting the vast majority of those parliamentary gains.”
Shroyer’s face froze. “So you did,” he said shortly, having forgotten about the brief entirely until just that moment. “In any event, Warrant Officer Brux’s abduction seems to have completely eluded the media for the time being. So, all things being equal, I think we can count ourselves relatively lucky. Her husband is being flown to the ATO [Afghan Theater of Operations] as we speak, and if all goes according to plan, we should have her back in our care within the next
twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
Pope sat nodding, an almost robotic smile plastered to his face as he absentmindedly scratched the back of his hand.
Shroyer sat watching him for a moment, finally realizing that Pope was someplace else. “Bob?”
Pope jerked his head. “Yes?”
“Your thoughts?”
“Oh, I was just wondering.”
“Wondering? Wondering what?”
Pope crossed his legs, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and laughing a dry, thoughtful laugh. “Well, George, I’m wondering how many of us in this room actually believe that’s going to happen.” He looked between the two other men, half raising his hand. “Show of hands?”
Webb dropped his gaze to the floor. He knew that Pope was borderline brilliant, so if he was seeing a flaw in the wiring somewhere, there was probably at least a 50 percent chance of a short circuit.
Shroyer, on the other hand, held no appreciation for Pope’s intellect, so all he saw was a wiseguy. He steepled his fingers, lips tightly pursed. He appeared to be counting to ten before finally sucking his teeth and asking, “Is this your way of saying you know something we don’t, Robert?”
Again the dry laugh. “Oh, well, I have all the same information as you do, George. Maybe I just have more time for interpretation.”
“That is what you get paid for, is it not?”
“All of our latest intelligence indicates that we’re dealing with some kind of a cursory alliance between the Taliban and Hezb-e Islami Khalis. These two groups were mortal enemies until six or seven months ago, as I’m sure you remember. And now they’re working together to collect a ridiculous sum of money?” Pope shook his head. “Not likely.”
“Why not likely?” Shroyer rapped. “Are you suggesting we not pay the ransom?”
“We don’t even have proof of life, George.”
“You’ve seen the damn video, Bob!”
“That’s proof of rape, not life. What if they executed her immediately afterward?”
“An execution is precisely what we’re acting to prevent.”
“I appreciate that,” Pope assured, Shroyer’s aggravation touching him not at all. “And I understand we’ve paid ransoms before without real-time proof of life, but the size of this ransom is reckless. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but something. It feels like amateur night to me, and if it’s amateurs, well . . .” He laughed. “There’s no limit to how many different ways this could go wrong.”
Shroyer stared across at Webb. “What do you have to add to this?”
Webb cleared his throat. “Well, the president has made a decision. I don’t think he’s going to change his mind a third time, and I certainly don’t think it’s a good idea to suggest that he does. The Speaker of the House is sitting up there on the Hill with her finger on the media button. All we can do now is follow the numbers and hope that Bob’s intuition is wrong on this one. What do you think, Bob?”
Pope’s mind had already begun to drift. “Oh, well I wasn’t suggesting we could do anything differently by this point. I just don’t want anyone being shocked if we end up giving away twenty-five million dollars for nothing . . . not that we don’t do that anyway . . . but . . . well, you take my point.”
Shroyer looked at Webb, a look of semi-exasperation plastered to his face. “Cletus, I understand you had something you wanted to bring up with Bob concerning SOG operations.”
Webb chose his words tactfully. “In the event, Bob, that your concerns prove to be valid, and Sandra isn’t returned, it will be extremely important for SAD to impress upon the SOG community—namely DEVGRU and SOAR—that no unilateral action is to be taken in an attempt to find her. We’ve heard the rumors, and we understand that emotions are running very high over there as a result of the treatment she’s been forced to endure. So we need you to make sure our special ops people understand that we are doing everything we can to bring their sister soldier back home alive, and that we require not only their readiness to act, but their patience as well.”
Pope reached out, briefly touching Webb on the arm. “You have my solemn word that no one within SOG will act before it is appropriate to do so.”
Webb was about to ask for a clarification on that, but Shroyer cut him off.
“Very well then,” the director said, rising from his chair. “Everyone’s on the same page. Thank you for coming over, Bob. It’s always a pleasure.” He offered his hand and Pope stood up to shake it.
Webb sat in his chair watching Pope’s face as the two men shook hands, awash in a sudden awareness that there was absolutely no guile in the man. Pope had given them his word that neither DEVGRU nor SOAR would take any action unless and until it was appropriate to do so, and Webb understood, unequivocally, that what Pope had truly meant was—just as sure as God made little green crocodiles—that DEVGRU would make the final decision as to when and what action would become appropriate in the event that the Taliban and their new best friends the Hezb-e Islami Khalis failed to honor their end of the bargain.
12
AFGHANISTAN,
Kabul
Silverwood met Chou in the same hotel lounge where they normally met, finding a secluded table at the back and ordering two coffees.
“Okay,” Silverwood said, stirring a copious amount of sugar into his cup. “How familiar are you with the name Aasif Kohistani?”
“He’s the guy the Army was rehearsing to snatch out of Nangarhar when Sandra was captured. He’s supposed to be the leader of some Hezb-e Islamist group. That’s about all I know.”
“Okay, good.” Silverwood said. “So how familiar are you with Waigal Village?”
“Not very,” Chou said shaking his head. “I know its east of Shok Valley where ODA 3336 got pasted a few years back.”
ODA 3336 was an Operational Detachment A-Team that had been sent into the Shok Valley to take out Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, the leader of the Hezb-e Islami Gulbuddin political party. The mission had been a disaster, and a number of Rangers had nearly bought it.
“Good,” Silverwood said. “That’s actually more than I expected you to know, being attached to the Navy.”
“So educate me, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Silverwood laughed. “Okay. ODA 3336 was sent into the Shok Valley to take out a guy named Gulbuddin Hekmatyar. Familiar with him?”
Chou shook his head.
“He’s a sixty-five-year-old Islamic fundamentalist who founded the Hezb-e Islami Gulbuddin party back in 1977. We call it HIG for short. He wasn’t too influential early on, but after the Soviets invaded, he became a big deal within the Mujahideen. There was a major problem with him, though. He killed damn near as many Afghans as he did Russians in his struggle to gain power. This made him pretty unpopular, so when the Taliban came along in the nineties, he got shoved aside. It wasn’t until we invaded and kicked the hell out of the Taliban that he was able to regain his political stature.” He saw the look on Chou’s face, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, I know. We have a way of creating these monsters with our good intentions. Anyhow, he went right back to butchering anybody who stood in his way, and his power’s been growing ever since. The failure of ODA 3336 to take him out back in ’08 only made him stronger.”
“Hold on a second,” Chou said. “Isn’t this the same nut responsible for the Badakhshan massacre?” He was referring to the massacre of ten foreign aid workers from the International Assistance Mission that had occurred in August 2010.
“Nobody knows for sure who ordered that attack,” Silverwood said, “but if it wasn’t the Gulbuddin faction, it was probably the Khalis faction—another Hezb-e Islami group that split off from HIG clear back in 1979—and it’s the goddamn Khalis faction that brings us here today! Not only has Aasif Kohistani recently become the leader of the Hezb-e Islami Khalis party—we call them the HIK—but they’re based out of Nangarhar Province where Sandra was taken.”
Chou sat back, taking a drink from his coffee. He put the cup down on the
table and immediately added more sugar. “I know there’s more,” he said with a smile, “so I’m going sit patiently waiting to hear.”
Silverwood took a sip of his own. “Do you know how many parliamentary seats that the HIG and HIK parties hold between them as of this year?”
“First, tell me how many seats there are total, or the number isn’t going to impress me.”
Silverwood laughed. “They hold fifty out of two hundred and forty-six seats.”
“Okay, that’s impressive.”
“So,” Silverwood said, leaning into the table and lowering his voice, “suppose—just for the sake of conversation—that good President Karzai knows the HIK took Sandra. How likely is it that he’ll go against them holding that damn many seats in parliament?”
“That would be a big risk,” Chou agreed. “I’m sure he’d prefer to sit back and watch us work it out ourselves.”
“Or to be on the safe side?”
Chou conceded the point. “Or to be on the safe side, he could offer to act as intermediary for the ransom exchange—which is exactly what the hell he’s done. Okay, that much is clear, but there’s a flaw in your theory.”
Silverwood sat back again. “Which is?”
“I know there’s already been a positive ident on one of the bodies at the scene of Sandra’s abduction. She was taken by Taliban forces—we know that much for sure—and you just said the Taliban doesn’t get along with the HIK.”
“They didn’t when they were strong,” Silverwood said. “Now the HIK is a lot stronger than the Taliban, so teaming up with them is a good idea, considering their growing political power.”
“You know this is still all circumstantial,” Chou said, unconvinced there was a connection.
“It is, but only until you consider the fact that one of those dead Taliban fighters found at the scene of the abduction is an exact DNA match with the Kalasha people who live in the Waigal Valley . . . more specifically the highly inaccessible mountain redoubt village of Waigal. By the way, I haven’t shared these DNA results with the State Department yet.”
