The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Rojan nodded. “Good, good.”

  “Okay, I’ve got to take care of a couple of things, but let me know as soon as you hear something.”

  “Will do.”

  Justin returned to his laptop and checked his secured email. No updates from Carrie. He checked his phone. No voicemails or messages from Markov. It’s too early, Justin. You’re being impatient. He drew in a couple of deep breaths, then dialed Vale’s number. He should be in Erbil by now, if there were no complications.

  Vale answered his phone after the second ring. “Yes, Justin, how are you?”

  “Good, good. How’s Erbil treating you?”

  “Eh, I’ve had better and I’ve had worse.”

  Justin frowned. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing has happened yet, and that’s the problem. The forger has disappeared, along with her family. No one knows anything. Neighbors say they sold the house and everything in it and moved. Some say to Germany; others place them elsewhere in Europe. We have a few leads and may get some phone numbers, but I don’t have much hope.”

  “Well, that’s something, Vale.”

  “Yes, it may be, but still no progress.” Vale’s frustration was clear in his sharp, edgy voice.

  “And the banker?”

  “He has disappeared too, but his family is all here. His wife told me he’s in Turkey on business and should return tomorrow or the next day. Now, of course, that may not happen, especially if the wife warns him.”

  “You tapped her—”

  “Yes, of course, we tapped her phone. But she can use a burner phone—which I’m sure any banker worth his salt would have for just these situations—or a neighbor’s or a friend’s line. I have someone following her, just in case she lied to us, and the banker is somewhere in the city.”

  “Good, that’s very good, Vale.”

  “Eh, standard procedure.”

  “Did you learn anything about Gezo, the mediator?”

  “No, and he’s the most difficult one to track down. I never get the same story when I inquire about him. Scenarios vary from some hospital in Turkey—either in Diyarbakir, Batman, or Siirt—to northern Syria or northern Iran.”

  Justin shook his head. Gezo was known to have a sort of sixth sense for suspecting danger and disappearing before he felt the heat. If Gezo did not want to be found, neither Vale nor Justin would be able to find him. “Focus on the banker. He’ll be the easier of the two to find.”

  “Yes, already on it. How’s the rescue plan coming along?”

  Justin told Vale what he knew about the Turkish army plans and the ISIS fighters’ movements.

  Vale said, “I hope it goes well, Justin, and I wish I was there to give you a hand.” His voice carried genuine concern.

  “I know, Vale. But what you’re doing is equally important, if not more valuable, since that’s our priority op, the reason we came to Iraq.”

  Vale did not answer right away.

  Maybe that came across as patronizing. Justin shook his head. “Anything else, Vale?”

  “No, nothing, Justin. I’ll call you if there’s any news.”

  “Great. Be safe.”

  “Yes, take care, Justin.”

  He placed his phone on the table and stood up.

  Just then, Rojan entered into the room without knocking, as per his custom. “Justin, my men are confirming Daesh is clearing out of Al-Akral.”

  “How many are left?”

  Rojan shrugged. “They’re not sure. Maybe twenty, thirty at the most.”

  “One-to-three. I like those odds. You’re ready to go?”

  “Yes, trucks are ready. Weapons locked and loaded.”

  “I’ll pack my gear, and we’ll head out.”

  He drew in a deep breath. Hold on, Azade. A few more hours, and I’m coming to get you.

  Chapter Fourteen

  January 14

  Four miles west of Al-Akral

  Northern Iraq

  Justin preferred to conduct such raids between two and three a.m., if possible. Those were the best hours to attack, when even the staunchest of watchmen were greatly tempted to fall prey to much-needed sleep. It was now only eleven, but Justin did not have time to wait. And because of the different type of the attack, he felt confident his team still held the element of surprise.

  He had divided his men into three groups. The first one, led by him and Rojan—because he spoke Arabic as Justin did—was passing as ISIS jihadists who were bringing six Peshmerga prisoners—the second group of unarmed fighters. These were cuffed and tied to one another. But it was only for appearance’s sake, as the handcuffs could be loosened at an instant. The last two Peshmergas, who were the best marksmen among the team, held overwatch positions.

  Justin gave Rojan a serious look, then said, “It’s time, man. You’re ready?”

  Rojan smiled. “As ready as ever, brother.”

  Justin glanced back at the Peshmergas huddled in the back of the truck. “We’re doing this.”

  “Let’s give Daesh what they deserve: death,” replied one of them.

  “Freedom to our brothers and sisters,” shouted another one.

  More triumphant shouts echoed through the night.

  Justin nodded. “Tonight, we fight together, and, by the will of God, we live to fight another day.”

  “Allahu akbar,” shouted one of the Peshmergas. God is greater.

  Justin flinched at the battle cry commonly used by jihadists when launching deadly attacks. But a majority of Peshmergas were Muslims, the non-extremist type, and many of them spoke Arabic, as well as their native Kurdish language.

  Rojan drove the Toyota truck as they made their way uphill, moving slowly along the dirt road leading to Al-Akral. The village had about thirty buildings. Justin and his team had no idea where the hostages were being held. They hoped the ISIS guards would lead them to the prison-house or houses, so the new group of hostages could join the existing one.

  The truck’s powerful headlights fell on a crude checkpoint formed by a couple of large dirt piles and scorched vehicles. A man pointed his rifle from behind a low cinderblock wall topped with sandbags. He shouted something indiscernible, then began to wave his hand, gesturing for the truck to stop.

  Rojan slowed down and glanced at Justin. “It’s on.”

  Justin nodded. “Play it cool, and it’ll go well.”

  The gunman had noticed the black ISIS flag waving from the Toyota’s cabin. He stood up from behind his post and reluctantly took a couple of careful steps.

  Rojan rolled down the window. “Salam alaikum,” he said to the gunman. “Allah guided our hands, and we bring in prisoners, infidels.”

  The gunman cocked his head. “Alaikum wa salam,” he said warily. “Who are you?”

  “Mohammed al-Baghdadi,” Rojan gave his alias. “We clashed with infidels down in the valley, and made many prisoners.”

  “And who do you fight with? Who’s your commander?”

  “Matar al-Bess.” Rojan gave the name of a well-known ISIS leader, who, according to confirmed reports, was operating in the area, maybe fifty or sixty miles southwest.

  The gunman walked slowly toward the truck. His distrustful eyes searched the cabin. When they fell on Justin’s face, the agent nodded slowly and gave the gunman the customary Muslim greeting as Rojan had done. The gunman returned a small nod, then he looked at the back of the truck. He nodded slowly, then said, “I’ll have to radio in for the chief to come and—”

  “But aren’t you in charge now?” Rojan interrupted him. “You can take us to him, so that he doesn’t have to come out.”

  “I . . . I’m not supposed to leave my post.”

  Rojan looked around. “Why, what’s going to happen? There’s no one around. Everyone has gone to fight the Turkish dogs. Quick, help us give these infidels what they deserve, so we too can go and help our brothers in Raykhan.”

  The gunman scratched his thick, long beard, then fixed his gray-and-white headdress tha
t had shifted slightly to one side. “I don’t know. The chief doesn’t like surprises.”

  Justin drew in a deep breath and felt sweat forming on his palms. The night was cool, so it was the adrenaline rushing through his body. He thought about saying something to help Rojan, but decided against it. The gunman might misinterpret Justin’s intervention. So he tried to still his racing heart, but his fingers tightened around his assault rifle across his lap.

  Rojan said, “But the chief will like it when you bring him new prisoners, defiant dogs who dared to fight our holy caliphate.” He paused for a moment, then added almost as an afterthought, “And he will reward you for this gift and the good news of more enemies falling under our feet.”

  The gunman remained unconvinced.

  Rojan opened his mouth, but Justin held Rojan’s arm and gave him a small headshake. The gunman was making a decision, and anything Rojan could say might have a negative effect.

  A long tense moment dragged on while the gunman contemplated his decision. Finally, he nodded slowly at Rojan, then said, “I’ll take you to the house where we’re holding the infidels. Well, most of them. It’s this way.” He gestured across the checkpoint and toward the right side of the village.

  Rojan nodded. “Good, good. Do you . . . why don’t you climb in so we can get there faster?”

  The gunman hesitated only a brief second. “Sure, okay.”

  Justin slid closer to Rojan and pushed open the door for the gunman. He climbed aboard and sat next to Justin. He felt very strange being so close to the ISIS jihadist, whom he would have to kill in a matter of minutes. Justin’s KA-BAR knife rested in his waistband sheath, and he became very conscious of its presence against his body.

  Rojan stepped on the gas, and the truck moved forward. “Where do we turn?”

  “Go straight until the flag, then turn right.” The gunman pointed at a house, whose wall was graffitied with ISIS propaganda, a black-and-white flag and the silhouette of a woman in a burka. The Arabic language description to the left read: You’re like a pearl in a shell when you wear a burqa.

  “That’s an awesome gun you have there,” the gunman pointed at Justin’s C8SFW assault rifle. “I haven’t seen any like those, but it reminds me of an M4.”

  Justin nodded and glanced at the gunman’s run-of-the-mill AK rifle. “It is.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Bought it.”

  He kept his replies as short as he could and spoke in a low, neutral tone. He did not want to give the gunman a reason to suspect Arabic was not Justin’s native language.

  “Where?”

  “Cairo, before I came to fight for the caliphate.”

  The gunman nodded. “Yes, you do have an Egyptian accent.”

  I’m glad we established that.

  “Can I have a look?” The gunman pointed toward the C8SFW rifle.

  “Sure,” Justin said, fighting the sizzling feeling at the pit of his stomach.

  The gunman ran his fingers along the weapon. “It looks great.”

  “And it fires even better,” Justin said. He stretched his hands, impatient for the gunman to return the rifle.

  The man toyed with the weapon another few seconds, then handed it back to Justin, who tightened his fingers around it.

  “When did you come to Iraq?” Rojan asked.

  The gunman did not reply right away. He rolled down the window and waved at a man who was hidden quite well behind a mound of sandbags on the terrace of a second-story building. He was manning a heavy machine gun. Justin made a mental note to remember the gunner’s position, in case the team made their exit along the same route.

  Rojan made the turn and slowed down, waiting for the gunman’s directions.

  He said, “Straight, then left, and then make another right.”

  Rojan nodded.

  The gunman said, “I came to Syria about nine months ago, then moved to this area maybe two, no, it’s actually three months now.”

  “I’ve never been there. How is it different?”

  The gunman shrugged. “Not much different. It’s getting harder to fight in Syria. Enemies on all sides, especially with the Russian intervention and the American air strikes. Things used to be much better, both there and here, until two, three years ago. That’s what I’ve heard, since I wasn’t here.”

  Justin nodded. He looked through the windshield for more jihadists’ positions. The gunman called out, and a couple of men appeared behind an iron-barred first-story window. He ordered Rojan to stop and explained to them what he was doing. They resumed driving and reached the other turn.

  Justin drew in a deep breath, uncertain whether to ask the question that was boiling in his mind. He shrugged and then said, “How many hostages do you have?”

  The gunman cocked his head toward Justin. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to make sure there’s enough room.”

  “Enough room?”

  “Yes, so they can all be tied up and unable to escape.”

  The gunman smiled. “Oh, that’s what you mean. There are twelve, no, eleven, since one died from beating yesterday. She was a weak, useless woman.”

  Justin’s heart jumped to his throat. He’s not talking about . . . about Azade. He wanted to grab the gunman by the throat and force him to give up the name. But that would blow their cover and put the entire operation at risk. So he choked back his angst and asked in as calm and casual of a voice as possible, “Are they . . . eh, Peshmergas?”

  The gunman did not respond right away.

  Justin wondered if he had tipped their hand or made the gunman even more suspicious. The gunman’s eyes met Justin’s. If the gunman had more feelings of mistrust toward Rojan and Justin, he also had a great way of hiding those feelings. The gunman thought about his answer for another moment, then said, “Most of them. There are also one, no, two foreign fighters. One is a Saudi.”

  “A Saudi?” Justin asked. “Isn’t that quite unusual?”

  The gunman shook his head. “No, we’ve had a few cases of fighters from the Kingdom. Most of them join our caliphate, but others, infidels, they betray the true jihad and want to join the enemy.”

  Justin nodded. “What’s . . . eh . . . what’s the Saudi’s name?”

  “Why?”

  “Eh, just curious. But maybe you don’t know.”

  “Oh, I do know. I know more than just his name. He goes by al-Farkhan. He’s about twenty-five or so. Long beard, much longer than mine. He’s a civil engineer from Riyadh.”

  Justin nodded again.

  The gunman said, “This is our turn.”

  “Okay,” Rojan said.

  He slowed down as they entered the narrow alleyway. A couple of trucks similar to theirs were parked further up. A group of jihadists, six or seven of them, were standing or sitting around the trucks.

  “Stop there,” the gunman said. “Right behind them.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rojan said.

  Justin exchanged a quick look with Rojan. It’s time, he mouthed the words.

  The gunmen glanced at the truck. A few of them began to ready their rifles.

  The passenger called at them. “It’s okay, we’re bringing in more prisoners.”

  No, we’re not. And we’re freeing everyone you’ve got.

  Justin’s hand slid toward his sheath. He pulled out his knife very stealthily. But the gunman felt the move and turned his head. His eyes fell to the knife, then he looked up at Justin. “What are you—”

  Justin’s thrust cut up his side and his words. A gush of blood spurted out of the gunman’s mouth. Justin silenced the gunman’s low shriek and twisted the knife, then took the AK and handed it to one of the Peshmergas who had already removed his handcuffs.

  The gunmen seemed to have noticed the strange movements in the truck thirty yards away. A couple stepped forward, slowly raising their rifles.

  Justin gave the passenger’s sidearm, a Russian-made Makarov, to the second Peshmerga eagerly waiting
for it.

  “Now, go, go, go!” Justin shouted.

  He pulled the door’s latch, then gave the gunman’s dead body a good shove. He fell out with a loud thud. Justin stepped around him, used the door as cover, and fired a quick burst.

  On the other side of the truck, Rojan and the armed Peshmergas opened fire as well.

  The jihadists began to fall around their vehicles. One or two were able to squeeze off a few rounds that banged against the truck’s doors. A couple shattered the windshield, then there was a brief moment of silence.

  Justin shouted, “Cease fire, cease fire.”

  He listened for a moment to the groans and shouts from a jihadist crawling on the ground. Justin said, “Cover me, I’m going in.”

  “Got it,” Rojan shouted.

  Justin dashed toward the door of the house. He fired a couple of rounds when he came near the jihadist, and he stopped crawling. Then Justin checked the bodies strewn around the trucks. None of them moved or drew in breath. He looked at the cabins, finding no one inside, dead or alive.

  As he came to the second truck, a volley almost blew his head off. Bullets hammered the back and the side of the truck. Someone was firing a machine gun.

  Justin dropped behind the truck as metal pieces flew all around him. He cursed the gunner and himself, as he had not noticed the gunner’s position. The bullets’ trajectory gave him the general direction, but not the exact location.

  The volley continued, and Justin moved back toward the first truck. Just as he arrived near it, the door of the house was thrown open. Two jihadists ran outside, their assault rifles drawn.

  Rojan and the Peshmergas met the jihadists with a hail of bullets. They fell by the door, which was about ten yards from Justin, on the other side of the truck.

  No one rushed out of the house, but someone fired a long barrage. Bullets punched holes in the cinderblock wall of the next house. The man was firing blindly, and his rounds landed way off target. But his suppressive fire was keeping Justin away from the entrance.

  He thought about tossing a grenade, to clear the hall just inside the house. But shrapnel from the explosion could wound or kill hostages. Justin doubted they would be kept so close to the door. But perhaps the jihadists had brought them out of their dungeon, to use them as human shields.