The End of America’s War in Afghanistan (The Russian Agents Book 3)

by Ted Halstead

  “Of course,” Neda snorted. “I’d heard of the Inter-Services Intelligence Agency even before my last stay here. Every Iranian knows about them, just as every Pakistani does in this country. Governments come and go in Pakistan. ISI is always here.”

  Vasilyev smiled. “Quite right. So, avoiding their attention is a high priority for us. I’ve been watching since we left the airport, and have seen no sign that ISI or anyone else is following us. Of course, if we were a high priority target, detection would be almost impossible.”

  “Yes,” Neda said, “I remember that point from my training. Either in a vehicle or on foot, all an experienced team needs is enough cars or people to switch off frequently enough that you can’t spot them. Unless they make a mistake.”

  “Very good,” Vasilyev said with an approving nod. “Now, what do you think I was looking for when I examined this car back at the garage?”

  “Either a bomb or a tracking device,” Neda replied immediately.

  Vasilyev laughed as his eyes continued to flick intermittently between his side and rearview mirrors. “Well, primarily tracking devices. ISI could arrest, question and execute us if they decided we were a threat, and would not want the messy spectacle of a bombing in an airport garage plus the danger of collateral damage.”

  Neda shook her head. “But what about the Taliban? If they found out foreign agents were coming to interfere with their plans, a bomb would work quite well.”

  Surprised, Vasilyev glanced at Neda, who he saw was looking at her side mirror. “Well, you’re right. If they were capable of obtaining intelligence on the movement of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons, who knows what else they might have learned? Now, did you notice the small instrument I was using to examine the car?”

  “Yes,” Neda said, “I remember it from training. It is designed to detect the electronic signals emitted by either a tracking or explosive device. But I noticed that you were looking very carefully, and not relying on the device.”

  “Correct,” Vasilyev said with a smile. “Many such devices attached to a car are designed to remain inert until the car is in motion. Also, an explosive device with a simple trembler switch would never emit a signal at all. You were right to remind me that one could always be there.”

  Neda looked around the car, still obviously unwilling to accept it. “And what if we need to outrun a pursuer? Please don’t tell me you think this is the car for that task.”

  Vasilyev laughed. “Well, no. It’s a three-cylinder, and its top speed of one hundred forty kilometers per hour could be easily bested by any vehicle used by either the ISI or the Taliban. But on this drive from the airport to our quarters, the ISI is a much more likely opponent. With the resources they can bring to bear here in the capital, even a Ferrari would be unlikely to save us.”

  Neda said nothing in response, but when Vasilyev glanced her way, he could see that silence did not equal agreement.

  Then Vasilyev added mildly, “Did I mention that we will be switching this vehicle with another once we reach our quarters?”

  Neda’s answering glare could have cut glass. “So why not tell me that, and avoid this discussion?”

  “Precisely because I believe it has been helpful for both of us,” Vasilyev replied with a smile. “Now that we’re getting into the city proper let’s see how much you recall from your last stay. Point out significant landmarks as we approach our quarters.”

  Neda gave a resigned sigh and was about to begin when she paused. “Don’t you think I should continue to help you look for pursuers?” she asked.

  Vasilyev shook his head. “I noticed that up to now you’ve been doing so, and appreciate the backup. However, if we were a target of interest at the airport, I believe it would be obvious by now. Or an ISI follow team is on us with resources we’ll never spot. Either way, checking your situational awareness is more important.”

  “Very well,” Neda said with a shrug. “We’re just passing the Federal courts. Up next are many other government office buildings, plus if I remember correctly two hospitals.”

  “Excellent,” Vasilyev said with a nod. “Do you recall the hospital names?”

  Neda frowned with concentration. “KLR and…Ali. So, I suppose it is sometimes useful for agents to know hospital locations?”

  Vasilyev grinned in response. “Yes, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let me know when we start to pass embassies.”

  Ten minutes later, Neda began calling out the embassies in turn as they passed them, “France, Thailand, Malaysia, the Netherlands, Italy, America…Russia.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Good. Next, we pass the embassies of Kuwait and Qatar, and then make the turn for our quarters.”

  A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a small, white two-story residence that looked enough like its neighbors to have been built from the same blueprint. A solid metal fence rose three meters high, with a portion cut off and mounted on a hinge to make a gate large enough to admit a car.

  Vasilyev opened an app on his phone and tapped in a code. A few moments later, the gate silently swung inwards, and Vasilyev turned their car into the driveway. The gate closed behind them just as quietly.

  At the end of the driveway, a large, new black SUV was waiting for them. Neither of them, though, was focused on their replacement vehicle.

  Vasilyev and Neda looked at each other, and though both remained silent, they were both thinking the same thing. Despite the absence of any visible sign, both felt that something was wrong.

  They walked together to the front door of the house, where Vasilyev pointed silently at the handle. Neda nodded her understanding. Their briefing papers included a description of the nearly invisible telltale that had been attached to the handle. Its absence almost certainly indicated that someone had entered the house.

  And might still be inside.

  Vasilyev used hand signals to tell Neda that he was going to circle to the back entrance and that she should wait for him out front. As soon as she nodded her understanding, Vasilyev silently disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Seconds later, the front door opened, and a large bearded man who appeared Pakistani stepped out directly in front of Neda, much to his evident astonishment. He quickly collected himself, and his right hand moved inside his jacket.

  Though many aspects of Neda’s training had been rushed, she had been given the full course in two separate martial arts used by FSB agents. The first was SAMBO, a Russian acronym translating to “self-defense without weapons.” The second was “Systema.” It included both a different style of hand-to-hand fighting as well as the use of edged weapons and firearms. There was nothing formal or stylized about either one.

  Neda’s first move was to strike the man’s windpipe with the edge of her hand. In training, she had practiced on a dummy with a sensor where she was supposed to hit. It had taken her two days of practice to finally be rewarded with the tone telling her she had struck with sufficient force. Neda had been brought back to the dummy at irregular intervals again and again until finally real dislike for the mannequin helped to propel her blows.

  Today the training paid off as the man reflexively moved his right hand away from his jacket and towards his throat while gasping for air.

  This left him open to Neda’s next move, which was to kick him between his legs as hard as she could.

  The man cried out in pain and doubled over, only to find his head held down by Neda’s right hand while her right knee drove upwards.

  A sickening “crunch” and a scream of pain said that the man’s nose had almost certainly been broken. He slumped into the doorway in a heap. As far as Neda could tell, he was unconscious.

  Vasilyev appeared behind the man, and pulled him back into the house, gesturing at Neda to enter as well before closing the door. Vasilyev checked the man for weapons, quickly discovering the 9mm pistol he had been reaching for when he first saw Neda. Reaching into his jacket, Vasilyev pulled out two zip ties and made sure the man woul
d remain immobile.

  Still using hand gestures, Vasilyev indicated he planned to search the rest of the house, and that Neda was to stand guard over the intruder. As soon as Neda nodded her understanding, Vasilyev moved off.

  Keeping one eye on the still figure of the zip-tied intruder, Neda looked at what she could see of the house. From the entryway, she could only see the living room, hallway, and what she was sure was the door to the kitchen.

  The furniture and layout of the house were a perfect match for the solidly middle-class homes Neda had visited when she had been in Pakistan before as a university student. Each time she had been invited home for dinner by one of her fellow female students.

  Neda had been sure each time of her friends’ motives. Their parents were another matter. All were genuinely curious since Pakistanis in the capital rarely encountered Iranians. One mother, though, had seemed actively suspicious. Neda wasn’t sure whether it was because she was Shi’a, Iranian, or both.

  Neda had found her year at university in Pakistan interesting and had never regretted deciding to go. As she reviewed the memories brought back by this house, though, she realized she also didn’t regret the decision not to extend her stay.

  Vasilyev returned, and Neda was relieved to see him immediately make an “all clear” hand signal. Next, he held up his cell phone, so Neda could read a coded text exchange that she immediately knew meant help was en route.

  A few minutes later, Vasilyev’s cell phone buzzed, and after checking the still unconscious man’s restraints, he nodded towards the front door.

  This time, Neda observed, if anything Vasilyev was more thorough in examining the large black SUV. She correctly assumed this was because of the possibility the intruder had attached a monitoring or explosive device before entering the house.

  Vasilyev’s search was both exhaustive and quick, even including wedging his entire body under the SUV’s chassis. A few minutes later, he gestured for Neda to enter the vehicle. Vasilyev had parked the Mehran far enough to the side of the driveway that there was just enough room for their new SUV to exit.

  As they exited the driveway and the gate closed shut behind them, Neda saw a similar SUV approaching, and Vasilyev’s cell phone buzzed again. Without even slowing down, Vasilyev pointed their vehicle north as the gate opened behind them, and the other SUV entered.

  “So, other agents will question my attacker,” Neda said flatly, her tone making it clear she would have preferred to do so herself.

  From the amused glance Vasilyev gave her it was clear he had understood that tone. “Yes, since as you know we have more important business. They will pass on whatever they learn, which hopefully will have nothing to do with us.”

  Neda frowned. “Nothing to do with us?” she repeated with obvious annoyance. “That gun he was reaching for felt very personal.”

  Now Vasilyev couldn’t help but laugh. “I understand it felt that way, but anyone he had encountered would have received the same treatment. I think it’s likely he was a contractor hired by ISI. One of the terms of his contract was ensuring nobody knew what he’d been hired to do. So, eliminating you was simply part of the job.”

  Neda’s frown now deepened to a scowl. “So, why do you think he was a contractor, rather than an ISI agent?”

  Vasilyev nodded and said, “As I think you’ve guessed, because of how easily you incapacitated him. Don’t misunderstand me—I was very impressed with your technique. I have seen less capable performances from far more experienced agents.”

  Slightly mollified, Neda asked, “So then why are you so sure he was a contractor?”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “Because there’s not a mark on you. ISI takes training its agents just as seriously as we do. He would have known better than to reach for his gun and leave himself completely open to attack if he’d had even rudimentary instruction. Of course, even most ISI contractors would know better. I think he underestimated you so badly simply because you’re a woman.”

  Neda gave Vasilyev a thin smile. “I doubt he’ll do that again.”

  Vasilyev’s eyebrows rose, and he replied, “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Why do you say it that way?” Neda asked with a frown. “What will happen to him?”

  Vasilyev took his right hand off the steering wheel and rocked it back and forth. “I can’t say for sure. But if I’m right that he’s a contractor and knows nothing of value, he’ll be eliminated. The ISI will be unlikely to object, or for that matter, even acknowledge his existence.”

  Neda shook her head. “I don’t like being responsible for another person’s death.”

  Vasilyev snorted. “Consider the alternative. He was certainly ready to kill you. If we released him instead, your full description plus a high-quality sketch of your face would be in the hands of every ISI agent in Pakistan later today.”

  “I know,” Neda said quietly. “I understand everything you’ve said, but I still don’t like it.”

  “Good,” Vasilyev replied. “That means you’re human. The FSB doesn’t recruit psychopaths, and I have no desire to work with one.”

  “Why do you think he was in the house?” Neda asked.

  “A good question,” Vasilyev replied. “I’m hoping that because it had been rented just before our arrival, ISI was having audio, and perhaps video surveillance installed. ISI often does this to monitor rental homes near embassies, but it usually takes longer. That’s probably why they used a contractor to step up the pace. If my guess is right, ISI knows nothing about us specifically, and running into their contractor was just bad luck.”

  Neda frowned. “We said nothing while we were in the house, but if there were cameras, ISI would know what we look like.”

  Vasilyev nodded calmly. “Yes. But the odds are with us. Video monitoring is more expensive, much easier to detect, and usually reserved for a high-priority target. The agents who came to collect your attacker will do a thorough sweep of the house and let us know for sure.”

  Neda looked out the window. “We’re on our way out of the city. Where are we going?”

  Vasilyev grinned. “Another good question. There’s always a Plan B. Compromise of the safe house was always a possibility, and if that happened, we would have to go elsewhere. That will be a small lodging not far from the facility that manufactures Pakistan’s nuclear weapons. There’s a good chance the attack will happen somewhere in that area, so we’ll wait there for word from Grishkov.”

  Neda looked puzzled. “That makes sense, but then why didn’t we go there in the first place?”

  “Because the Taliban hitting the weapon transports before they’ve gone far from the manufacturing facility is only one possibility. If they are tactical nuclear weapons, then they’re probably headed for deployment at the southern stretch of Pakistan’s border with India. If the Taliban have learned of the weapons’ destination, they might be planning to attack in that area. In that case, we’ll have moved in precisely the wrong direction,” Vasilyev replied.

  “But you don’t believe that,” Neda said flatly.

  Vasilyev grinned and glanced at her, and wasn’t surprised to see she was smiling too. “No, I don’t. The Taliban have to know this attack will be their only opportunity to steal nuclear weapons. The Pakistani military may have relaxed a bit after moving their weapons around the country without incident for well over twenty years. After an attack, the military would increase security to the point that the Taliban would never get another chance. So, the Taliban might strike weapons transports with a mix of tactical and strategic nuclear weapons. I don’t think they’ll use their only opportunity on ones with only tactical nuclear devices.”

  Neda frowned. “So, until we hear from Grishkov, all we can do is make our best guess and hope we get lucky?’

  Vasilyev nodded soberly. “In this business, that’s often the best we can do.”

  Chapter Five

  Peshawar, Pakistan

  Mullah Abdul Zahed tried hard to keep his real thoughts and feelin
gs from reaching his face as he looked at Hashmat Mohebi. His thinning white beard, emaciated frame, and gaunt features made him look one short step from the grave.

  It was hard for Abdul to accept, but in one respect, Hashmat was perfect. From a distance, Hashmat’s white beard, turban, and overall size and height were a close match to Abdul.

  Abdul had been in hiding for several years while preparing the final stage of his plan to expel the Americans from Afghanistan. Anyone seeing Hashmat from a distance could easily mistake him for Abdul, and think that his illness accounted for Abdul’s absence. He had heard that the Americans always liked to get “visual confirmation” if they could, so he had to make sure the bait was credible.

  Abdul strongly suspected that Hashmat seeming to be at death’s door was true in reality, not just appearance. Hashmat refused to speak about his health, always saying there was nothing wrong with him that a cup of coffee and some rest couldn’t cure.

  Well, Abdul didn’t blame Hashmat for refusing to see a doctor trained in England or America. They would give him drugs that would make him even sicker.

  Abdul thought Hashmat probably had cancer. Whatever his ailment, it worked to Abdul’s advantage, and that was all that mattered.

  Hashmat was almost pathetically eager to still be of use, to make a difference of some kind in the fight against the Americans. Though he had done more than his share of fighting over the years, his days in combat were over.

  So Abdul had told Hashmat of another way he could be useful. It was a way that, at first, he had vigorously resisted.

  That was good because it was what all the other Taliban leaders would expect. Hashmat, who had fought so hard and so faithfully for so many years, would never sell out his brothers to the Americans for money.

  But, Abdul explained, the men Hashmat would be giving to the Americans would be sacrificed for a higher goal. To lay an ambush for the American special forces, perhaps one that would even manage to snare the vaunted Seal Team Six.