Out of Range: A Novel

by Hank Steinberg

  The head of SO, Assistant Commissioner Cressida Bevis, leaned forward and whispered something in Sir Ian’s ear.

  “Thank you, AC Bevis. As to the issue of the precise nature of the threat—we anticipate dirty bombs packed with high levels of radioactive materials which are capable of inflicting substantial human damage—not to mention untold property damage.”

  Sir Ian surveyed his audience gravely.

  “I must stress that this is more than just a threat. We have hard intelligence that this is going to happen today. It’s only a question now of precisely where and when. I trust that each and every officer in this room understands the need for absolute and utter secrecy. If word gets out, the panic will cause untold damage to this great city. Now I can answer a few brief questions before—”

  Bryce pulled a finger across his throat, signaling the comms officer to cut the feed from the police briefing. He was satisfied to know that wheels were in motion. According to the latest reports, similar briefings were going out to police in each of the targeted cities. He could only imagine how shocked—and frustrated—the police in those cities must feel.

  So now it was all down to the SAS operation to seize Byko.

  “How much time?” he demanded.

  “They should have a visual in the field within thirty seconds, sir.”

  “Put it on.”

  The satellite image appeared: three vehicles blasting down the A377 at high speed. The tech had set the satellite on infrared so that they were seeing heat, not visual spectrum. He could make out three teams of SAS, white splotches against the green-tinged ground.

  Bryce hunched over the microphone and shouted, “Prepare for R and S. We’ll go on my command.”

  Stupid bloody prat,” one of the SAS men muttered after Bryce’s command came over the radio.

  Hopkins tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile. There had been a time when units like the SAS were entirely independent of control from headquarters. But with the advent of modern comms, soldiers often had to do their work with London peering over their shoulders, second-guessing their every move. They made no bones about how much they hated it.

  “On my mark,” Major Rowbotham said, ignoring Bryce.

  Hopkins could hear engines in the distance now—Byko’s convoy—and he trained his field glasses on the hill about a half mile away. The location had been carefully chosen so that the convoy would come over the ridge and have very little time to react to the semitrailer “jackknifed” on the road.

  The truck had been backed out about a minute earlier, the hood lifted, and some sort of small incendiary device ignited inside the engine compartment so that it appeared to be suffering from a major engine malfunction.

  Any vehicle Byko traveled in could be presumed to be fully hardened—steel-plated doors and roof, inch-thick polycarbonate-reinforced windows, Kevlar paneling—but depleted uranium rounds would cut through hardened steel plate as though it were cheesecloth and there were three sniper teams running .50-caliber Barrett rifles on the hillside overlooking the road, prepared for the ambush.

  Hopkins shifted focus slightly on his binoculars as the first of the three SUVs crested into view. Almost immediately, all three were braking hard, their tires squealing on the road.

  Rowbotham spoke into the radio. “Go.”

  Three loud gunshots split the air, echoing back and forth in the narrow valley. The simultaneous shots from the sharpshooters were perfectly timed. The .50s slammed into the SUVs’ engines, smashing through the armor plate and into the engine blocks, blasting a shower of wrecked pistons and timing gears out the bottoms of all three vehicles. With that, the vehicles rolled silently to a stop, steam pouring out of their engine compartments.

  Again, the .50s banged, sending another set of rounds downrange—this time through the windshield of each car. The intent was not to kill anyone inside, but to send the clear message that any resistance would result in the massacre of everyone in the cars.

  At the sound of the Barretts, two dozen men rose out of the ground as though spawned from dragon’s teeth. They had been there all along, of course—but so effectively camouflaged that it had been nearly impossible to spot them.

  Less than half a beat later, a second fire team burst out from around the truck.

  Hopkins imagined how terrifying it must have been for the occupants of Byko’s convoy. One second, they were bombing down the road, only a few miles from their destination. The next second, they were stopped dead, holes punched in their “bulletproof” cars, sixty automatic weapons trained directly on them. It was a classic, perfectly executed L-shaped ambush. Hopkins felt a burst of pride in the men. This op had been dumped in their laps at the last second and they’d executed everything perfectly, leaving Byko only two choices.

  Surrender or die.

  But thus far no doors had opened, no return shots fired, no one had appeared at all. Rowbotham nodded to Hopkins and they began hiking down the hillside toward the three motionless vehicles. Hopkins would have been well within his brief to have waited at the top of the hill and let the SAS handle all the risky bits. After all, there was still a possibility of gunplay.

  But he wanted to be there to see Byko’s face.

  Thirty feet from the lead car, Hopkins stopped, crossed his arms and shouted into a bullhorn, “Right then, Byko. Out you come!”

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the rear door of the second SUV opened slowly.

  Sixty rifles swiveled toward the door.

  A young woman stepped tentatively out of the car. With her brown hair, blue jeans and white shirt, she looked vaguely like Julie Davis. But this girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  Another door opened and a tall, dark-haired man in a white linen suit stepped out of the car, hands extended, palms out to show he wasn’t armed. He stood slowly, buttoned his beautiful suit, smoothed the front of his coat, took off his sunglasses and smiled.

  “You’ve got me,” he said in Russian.

  “Christ,” muttered Hopkins.

  The SAS commander looked at him curiously, brow furrowed.

  “That’s not Byko,” Hopkins said. “It’s a double.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Charlie felt an odd mix of anxiety, sadness and anticipation as he and Salim drove through the outskirts of Andijan. It was the capital city of the province, but it was a drab, ugly town. The streets were poorly paved, the storefronts were barren, and at this early hour, the sidewalks were nearly deserted. But when they neared the city center, he saw many more people, and by the time they got within half a mile of the Square, the streets were packed and vehicular traffic could no longer move.

  Charlie spotted a vacant lot on his right and pulled into it. They’d have to walk from here. He grabbed his Sig Sauer, made sure he had a dozen extra cartridges in his pocket and got out of the car. His cohort did the same, but the instant Salim shut his door and started limping toward the town, Charlie saw how injured he really was.

  “What’s going on with your leg?” Charlie asked.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with—”

  “Salim.”

  Charlie bent down and Salim reluctantly allowed him to roll up his pants. The edges of the gaping wound were angry and red, with a rim of white showing along the margins of the cut. A clear liquid weeped out the bottom, crusting along the top of his sock.

  “This is infected,” Charlie told him. “You need to get to a hospital.”

  “Not when you still need my help.”

  Charlie looked at the kid—his bravery, his nobility, his largesse.

  “You’re not going to be any help to me if you can barely walk,” Charlie told him. “There used to be a clinic just up the road. I’m going to leave you there.”

  Salim tried to fight him, but the instant he put any pressure on the leg he nearly collapsed.

  Charlie put his arm around him, absorbing the kid’s
weight, and helped him trudge through the growing crowd. They walked a half-dozen blocks in silence, each of them taking in the scene around them. The mood today was far different than it had been the last time Charlie was here. The placards themselves told the story. Six years ago they were adorned with hopeful slogans. Today, many had photos of friends and family members who’d been killed in the Square.

  When they arrived at the clinic, Charlie was grateful to see that it was still there and that it was open today.

  “You don’t need to take me inside,” Salim said. “I am slowing you down as it is.”

  Charlie took out some money and offered it to Salim.

  “I don’t want that,” Salim snapped, looking insulted.

  “It’s for the doctor,” Charlie said. “Make sure they give you the proper medicine. An antibiotic.”

  Salim reluctantly took the cash and crumpled it into his pocket, then looked at Charlie incredulously. “How are you going to find your wife?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “But I know Byko will be here.”

  “I wish you luck.”

  Charlie nodded. “I can’t even begin to thank you.”

  “I am the one who should be thanking you,” Salim said. “For making us believe that we must fight. That change was possible.”

  “I’m not sure I was right,” Charlie said.

  “You were,” Salim assured him. “Even if it hasn’t happened yet.”

  Charlie felt himself well up with tears. This kid—this naive, yet worldly kid—reminded him so much of himself at that age.

  “You better go,” Salim said.

  Charlie touched his heart with his palm. “Assalaam aleikum.”

  “Aleikum salaam.”

  And with that, Salim smiled, limped toward the clinic and disappeared inside.

  Charlie watched the closing door for an extra moment, then turned back toward the Square. Now that he was finally here, in Andijan, he felt in his bones that Hopkins was wrong, that Byko and Julie would be here, too. Somewhere.

  Julie was trussed up in the rear of Byko’s vast presidential suite. The hotel was a holdover from the final days of the Soviet Union—a Stalinist fun house mirror version of a Western luxury hotel. Fancy woodwork, a grand piano, oil paintings on the walls, Belgian chocolates on the pillows. And yet when you homed in on the details, there was something weird and cheap about it all—Bakelite handles on the furniture, worn patches in the silk carpet, hideous pink and green reimaginings of 1970s-era Pop Art.

  She glanced surreptitiously at Quinn, who was watching her like a hawk. Then her eyes fell on Byko, who was standing on the balcony overlooking the gathering crowd in Babur Square. Two more bodyguards stood at the doorway outside the room.

  Julie considered her odds if she tried to bull her way past Quinn and dive off the balcony into the crowd, but quickly rejected the idea. The fourth floor was too high and there was a pretty good chance she’d die if she fell. If not, she’d certainly break a leg and Byko’s guards down below would be on her in no time.

  Besides, before she could think of escape, she needed to take one more stab at Byko. She’d seen his vulnerability back there in the car and she still felt there might be an opening, however narrow and elusive, for her to convince him to call off the horrendous enterprise he’d set in motion.

  The French doors opened and Byko came in off the balcony.

  “How many people are down there?” she asked.

  He stared at her for a long moment, as if appraising how to get through to her. “I know you think that what I am doing I do merely for revenge. For my own pain. But it isn’t true. I am very well aware that my country is filled with people who’ve lost far more than me. Today I will speak for them.”

  “But you don’t speak for them, Alisher. If they knew what you were planning, they would be horrified.”

  “If you ask them, yes, that is what they would say. But in their hearts a part of them will cry out, ‘Finally! Finally someone has done something to wake up the world.’ ”

  “So you’re doing all this for ‘your people’? What do you think will happen after all the bombings? The West will rally around Karimov, America and Britain will give him more money to contain the ‘extremists,’ and he’ll have even freer rein to clamp down on the people in the name of fighting terrorism. You must know that.”

  “Sometimes things need to be pushed to a breaking point,” Byko replied. “For there to be real change.”

  “You still have time to call it off. Please, Alisher. There’s still decency inside you. I know there is.”

  “Decency is not a luxury I can afford,” he said. “And there is nothing inside me now but rage.”

  Charlie thought he was prepared for how strong his feelings would be when he got near the Square, but as soon as he spotted the sculpture of Babur in the distance, he broke out in a cold sweat.

  Even from afar, he recognized the precise spot where Byko had clung to his dead son and screamed up at the heavens. From there, his eyes trailed to the patch of stone where he had been gunned down. Then his gaze settled on a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than ten and her hair was blond but there was something about her face, her posture, her manner that reminded him of the girl from that day. The one he’d tried to save.

  And suddenly, he was back there again, reliving it all.

  As the memories overwhelmed him, spots of light swam in front of his eyes and he thought he might faint.

  “Sir,” someone asked. “Are you all right?”

  Charlie found his focus and noticed an elderly man in a beige linen suit standing next to him.

  “Are you all right, sir? Do you need something to drink?”

  The man offered him a bottle of water, but Charlie straightened and took a deep breath, “I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  The old man nodded as if he understood everything. “It is hard to come back here,” he said. His eyes met Charlie’s for an instant and then he headed into the Square.

  Charlie took another deep breath, then gazed around, unsure what he was looking for when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and saw it was Hopkins.

  Was it news of Julie? Charlie closed his eyes for a beat, took a deep breath, then answered . . .

  “This is Charlie Davis.”

  “We were wrong,” Hopkins admitted. “We were wrong and you were right. Byko’s in Andijan and he has Julie with him.”

  Charlie stiffened. “Where?”

  “A safe house outside the city.”

  “And how do you know all of this?”

  “We’ve captured some of his men. They’ve coughed up the truth.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “We have no way to gain access to the country. Karimov has made himself unavailable and there isn’t the political will to send in a covert operation on foreign soil. Even if there were, there simply isn’t the time at this point.” Hopkins hesitated. “We need you to get to Byko.”

  “And do what?”

  “We believe he’s waiting until the last moment to give out the targets to his people. It’s possible there may still be time to stop him.”

  “And what if I’m too late?”

  “Then it would be a matter of coercing him to tell you where they are. Either way, it means apprehending him by force.”

  Charlie nearly laughed. “Oh, is that all?”

  Hopkins’s voice was gravelly and tired. “I know we’ve already asked too much of both of you. Believe me, I know that. But you are our only option at this point.”

  “The men you captured, they say Byko’s in a safe house?”

  “That part is our deduction.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make sense,” Charlie argued. “Byko didn’t come all the way here to hole up away from the action. He’ll want to be close, maybe even participate in the event.”

  “At this point, I am willing to defer to your judgment, Mr. Davis.”

  For t
he first time, Charlie could hear a defeated tone in Hopkins’s voice. He almost felt sorry for the man.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Charlie said. “You can trace my whereabouts by tracking this phone.”

  He hung up and looked around.

  Most of the buildings surrounding the Square belonged to the government. But there were a couple of hotels—the Metropol and the Rossiya. The Metropol was the nicer of the two, a hotel that went back all the way to czarist times. But Charlie vaguely remembered hearing that former Soviet premier Mikhail Brezhnev had visited Andijan once and had stayed at the Rossiya.

  According to the story he had heard, the local party bosses had spent millions of rubles to build a massive presidential suite on the fourth floor in preparation for Brezhnev’s one-day stay in the city. Charlie seemed to recall a photo of Brezhnev reviewing a parade from the balcony, wooden faced, with his giant cartoon eyebrows and his fur hat. From a security perspective, the huge suite would be the best place for Byko to stay. Plus, it would appeal to Byko’s grandiosity, his lunatic sense of historical mission.

  Charlie began pushing through the crowd toward the Rossiya, a squat, ugly building that took up an entire city block along the western edge of Babur Square. As he got closer he saw a figure standing on a balcony overlooking the giant expanse of the Square, but from a distance he couldn’t quite make out the man.

  He walked faster, heart thrumming with anticipation. Because Charlie could scarcely believe his eyes.

  Standing there alone—unguarded—was Alisher Byko.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Charlie pulled the hood over his jacket to obscure his face from Byko. He was looking straight down at the people in the Square and Charlie felt sure that Byko could actually recognize him in the crowd. But Charlie quickly realized that Byko’s head was barely moving, that he didn’t seem to be looking around. He couldn’t see Byko’s eyes from that distance, but he imagined that Byko might not be surveying the crowd at all. That he, too, was back in time, reliving the events of six years ago.