The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  “No, still too far away.” Zinoviy’s lip curled up again, and he gave Justin a small frown.

  Justin was confused. Is that another hint? Or his first answer was a lie, and now he’s telling the truth?

  He asked a few more pointed questions that led him nowhere certain. Zinoviy gave Justin a lot of facial clues, in fact so many that he could not determine which ones were telltales of lies. He knew some of Zinoviy’s answers were not the truth, but he could not determine with certainty which ones. Zinoviy was employing a well-known strategy of overwhelming the interrogator with what appeared like hints or gestures to confuse their interpretation.

  So Justin decided to change tactics. It did not really matter to him what Zinoviy was after in northern Iraq. Until a few hours ago, Justin was completely unaware of Zinoviy’s existence, let alone his operation. But perhaps he knew or could find out about Egorov. That was a part of Justin’s mission. And Zinoviy would be more willing to talk about another operation rather than his own.

  Justin looked around. A few children not older than six, maybe seven, were kicking a tattered soccer ball around. A couple of Peshmergas joined in the fun, their joyful shouts mingling with the high-pitched cries of the children. “Okay, Zinoviy. I won’t badger you anymore about your operation. But you’re not off the hook. I need you to tell me about Egorov.”

  The mention of the name seemed to rattle Zinoviy. The crease on his forehead formed a deep, uneven V-shape. “What . . . what about her?”

  “You know Egorov?”

  “I know of her.”

  “What do you know?”

  Zinoviy clenched his teeth. Then he unlocked his jaws and said, “That she’s a traitor.”

  “How so?”

  Zinoviy cursed Egorov. “She sold her agency, her country, to terrorists.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “You mean what reasons did she have?”

  “No, I mean how. Give me the dynamics.”

  Justin was trying to dig deeper, go beyond Zinoviy’s emotional response. How much of what he was saying was first-hand knowledge that matched what Justin already knew? Or was it all hearsay, as Egorov’s story made waves throughout the Russian intelligence community?

  “Well, she was dispatched to Iraq—not too far from this area actually—to facilitate a hostage swap.”

  “Wait a second, back up. Why was Egorov dispatched to the area? She’s FSB.”

  Zinoviy gave Justin a puzzled look. “FSB routinely operates beyond our motherland’s borders. You know that.”

  “I do. But why specifically Egorov?”

  “She was familiar with the area and had contacts. Well, we thought they were trusted contacts.”

  “Tell me about the hostages.”

  Zinoviy sighed. “They were two SVR agents. During a clash with a rogue militant group—a splinter group from the ISIS murderers—our comrades were captured. They suffered grave wounds, but they were still alive. So Egorov was sent in for the swap.”

  Justin nodded. “The two SVR agents in exchange for . . .”

  “Our army has captured hordes of ISIS deserters and other cowards of all flags and creeds. This group was interested in a handful of their own people, some of whom were brothers or close relatives.”

  “Okay, so what was Egorov’s treason?”

  “She led our army troops into an ambush. The swap never happened. Our hostage retrieval team was attacked by jihadists who knew the team was coming.”

  “What happened to Egorov?”

  Zinoviy cursed her again. “She vanished without a trace.”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  “I heard rumors that placed her in Europe—Belgium, to be more specific.”

  “Where could she be now?”

  Zinoviy shrugged. “Anywhere in the world. She must have been paid handsomely to betray our country. With that money and her skills, I doubt she’s anywhere close.”

  “How do I find her?”

  Zinoviy grinned. “You don’t. GRU, FSB and the army have been looking for her for weeks. And our methods are, let’s say, a bit more effective than the ones you’d employ, with all the human rights concerns and red tape.”

  Justin nodded. “Okay, you said Egorov has a wide network of contacts. Are MIT agents a part of that network?”

  Zinoviy did not reply right away.

  “C’mon, Zinoviy. I know you know the answer. Turkish intel negotiated the operatives’ exchange.”

  Zinoviy sighed. “Yes, they are.”

  “Give me a couple of names.”

  He began to shake his head, but Justin raised a dismissive hand. “Zinoviy, you have to give me something here. I don’t want to say ‘you owe me’—”

  “But I do,” Zinoviy said in a low voice with a tinge of regret. “One of her contacts was a man who went by the name of Idris.”

  “Last name?”

  “I don’t know, but you don’t need it. He was well-known and feared.”

  “Okay. Has GRU or anyone else located Idris?”

  “We haven’t.”

  Justin nodded and thought of his next set of questions. “Besides Idris, who else did Egorov know?”

  “She knew many people.”

  Justin shook his head. “Zinoviy, let’s not make this more difficult. Who can you tell me about?”

  “Mehmet Efendi. He’s an oil businessman from Gaziantep.”

  “Pretty important character if he’s called ‘Lord,’” Justin said. “Efendi” was an archaic title of nobility dating from Byzantine times.

  “He thinks more highly of himself than he ought to. But he has connections. And before you ask, no, we haven’t found him.”

  “Did you look for Mehmet?”

  “No. Albeit one of the traitor’s contacts, he wasn’t involved in the hostages matter.”

  Justin nodded and stifled the first thought that popped into his mind. So you’re giving me useless intel, Zinoviy. Either someone I can’t find or someone who doesn’t know anything. But he bit his tongue and said, “All right, I need a few more details about the exchange.”

  They talked for another fifteen minutes, and Justin was able to pry out a few more names, dates, and routes. The GRU seemed to have swept the area clean. But Justin remained unfazed. Even the best intelligence agencies missed things on a regular basis. He would take another look, especially at those aspects he was not very familiar with. And let’s see if this Little Lord Mehmet actually knows more than everyone is giving him credit for.

  Chapter Seventeen

  January 14

  Kadjalah, thirty-five miles south of the Bashaweh Turkish base

  Northern Iraq

  Justin felt he had gathered enough intelligence to brief his boss, so he placed a call. It went to Flavio’s voicemail, and Justin was somewhat relieved. He was not sure what to expect from Flavio, especially about potential suspicions about the attack on the Turkish army base and the recent clash with ISIS fighters. So Justin left a brief message and hung up.

  Rojan was recovering from the surgery. The doctor had removed the bullet and had stitched up the wound. He was confident Rojan would not die but could make no promises about the speed of his recovery. The bullet had pierced the intestines, and Rojan would be transferred to a hospital in Mosul as soon as he could travel. Justin thanked the doctor and said a prayer for the young man.

  Then Justin looked for one of the freed hostages, the Saudi fighter. Justin had laid eyes on him during the rescue, but that was neither the time nor the place for a deep, long conversation. The Saudi was using a cinderblock as a stool while sitting on the porch of one of the nearby houses. A group of Peshmergas and another one of the former hostages were huddled around, chatting and drinking tea and coffee. Justin greeted them, then gestured at the Saudi. “I think I saw you at the house, when we were coming out.”

  “You did.” The man nodded. “May Allah grant you victory a
nd bless your hands.”

  Justin nodded. “And may God bless you too. Do you have a few moments? I’d like to talk to you.”

  The Saudi man looked around. “I . . . I’m enjoying the company of dear friends. Can it—”

  “No, it can’t,” Justin said in a firm voice. “I have to be somewhere very soon, and this won’t take long.”

  The Saudi stood up reluctantly and followed Justin until they were beyond earshot of the Peshmergas and other men and women ambling about. Then he turned around and looked into the Saudi’s deep-set grayish eyes. “Tell me what you’re doing here, al-Farkhan.”

  The man’s face froze at the mention of his name. He glanced around, obviously worried someone might hear the word. Then he returned his eyes to Justin and gave him a confused look. “I . . . how do you know my name?”

  “I like to learn things. Do you want to tell me why you are so far away from Riyadh?”

  Al-Farkhan hesitated. He began to shrug and looked away.

  Justin said, “It’s not gonna take me long to find out. Especially if the Peshmergas learn about your true identity. They’ll start asking the same question: why you’re lying to them.”

  Al-Farkhan shook his head. “I’m just trying to protect myself.”

  “From what?”

  “Kidnappers. Everyone around here thinks Saudis swim in gold-filled pools.”

  “They don’t?”

  Al-Farkhan groaned. “No, they don’t. I don’t.”

  “Is that what your Peshmerga friends thought?”

  Al-Farkhan did not reply.

  Justin asked, “What group did you fight with?”

  “The one out of Bashiqa. It was a small unit loyal to the KRG.”

  Justin frowned. The Kurdistan Regional Government was the de facto government in the area, operating with the approval of the Iraqi authorities. However, most of the Peshmerga forces loyal to the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, or the PKK, did not recognize or accept the KRG. It would be difficult to disprove al-Farkhan’s claims.

  “How long did you fight with them?”

  “A few months, until ISIS captured me.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Al-Farkhan gave a brief account of an ambush against his unit while they were traveling to one of their bases. Justin asked for specifics, but al-Farkhan had difficulties coming up with details. Justin could sense something was not quite right with the story, but he just could not place the finger on what was wrong with it.

  He listened in silence, thinking about the short conversation he had had with the gunman they had tricked into leading them inside the ISIS stronghold of Al-Akral. I should have asked him more questions about the Saudi. But what did he say exactly? Justin tried to remember the words, which vaguely echoed in his mind. He said, They want to join the enemy. That’s it! The gunman said they want, not they have joined the enemy. He thought about his idea for another long moment, then interrupted al-Farkhan, “That’s a fascinating story, but you know what I think? You never fought with the KRG.”

  Al-Farkhan shook his head. “I did. I fought in many—”

  “No, you didn’t. You came to Iraq to join ISIS, maybe use your engineering skills to rebuild the caliphate. But then you became disillusioned with the brutal reality and decided to escape. That’s when you were caught.”

  Al-Farkhan’s headshake grew violent. “No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. I was trained with the Peshmergas, and I fought, I killed jihadists.”

  Justin shrugged. “I will check your story, and I will find the truth. But if it is as I think it is, then these Peshmergas will behead you, so you can pay for your crimes. You understand that?”

  Al-Farkhan gave a small nod.

  Justin continued, “If you tell me the truth, right now, I’ll keep you safe and—”

  “There is no other truth than what I told you,” Al-Farkhan said. “I am, was, a fighter with the Peshmergas. I bled, I almost died, for this land, for their, well, my cause as well.”

  “Last warning: Come clean and you’ll live. Lie to me and you’ll die.”

  Al-Farkhan clenched his jaws and shook his head.

  “As you wish.” Justin stood up. “You’ll be in lock-up until this is settled.”

  “No, you can’t—”

  “Of course I can. But it’s up to you if your lock-up is brutal or just tolerable.”

  “What . . . what does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t say a word to anyone about my suspicions. If the Peshmergas find out who I think you are, they’ll behead you or shoot you without waiting for concrete evidence.”

  Al-Farkhan nodded. “I . . . I understand.”

  “Now, do you want to reconsider your—”

  “I thought you already gave me your last warning?”

  Justin nodded. He disliked al-Farkhan’s defiant tone, but decided to let it slide. “You’re right.” He grabbed al-Farkhan by his right arm. “Let’s go.”

  He shoved al-Farkhan in front of him, then found one of the Peshmergas who was a close associate of Rojan’s. Justin explained in broad strokes his suspicions that al-Farkhan might not be telling the complete truth about the reason he was taken hostage. The Peshmerga frowned and offered to beat the truth out of al-Farkhan. Justin appreciated the offer and thought about accepting it. But then he shook his head and told the Peshmerga that there was another way. Justin was going to inquire and check the truthfulness of al-Farkhan’s words and then return or send someone to pick up the prisoner. The Peshmerga swore on his own honor that he would guard the Saudi at all times.

  Justin thanked the Peshmerga and waited for Azade at their meeting place. He had said “goodbye” to Zinoviy, who had said he was headed to Kirkuk, in the southeast. Justin doubted that was the Russian’s destination, but it did not matter. Justin had gotten more than he had expected from the GRU operative, and had relayed all that intelligence to Vale. By the time Justin and Azade arrived in Erbil, hopefully Vale would have already made progress.

  As he waited, Justin placed a call to the Peshmergas securing the two Turkish soldiers. He ordered the Peshmergas to release the soldiers and make sure they reached safely the Bashaweh Turkish base. The Turkish army was still locked in a fierce fight with ISIS hordes defending Raykhan as payback for ISIS’s apparent attack and kidnapping of the soldiers. The Peshmergas were told to exercise the utmost care and never show their faces, always speak in Arabic, and use the derogatory terms and rough language of the terrorist group. With a bit of luck, the Turkish soldiers’ return would raise no suspicions about their real kidnappers.

  Azade showed up about ten minutes before the appointed time with a large round tray. A couple of Peshmergas were with her. “Let’s have some breakfast,” she said with a smile after she made introductions and everyone shook hands and exchanged hugs.

  They sat cross-legged a short distance away. Azade had brought rice, beans, flat bread, and coffee. Everything but the coffee was lukewarm, but Justin was not about to complain.

  Azade nodded toward one of the Peshmergas and said, “Tori will drive us to Erbil. He used to live there and knows the city and the people.”

  Justin nodded. He did not need to ask whether Tori could be trusted. Azade would have not brought him along if she did not place her faith in him. And Justin’s questions would be a grave insult to everyone. He finished chewing his mouthful of rice, then said, “I already have someone working in Erbil. But of course we can use all the sources we can find.”

  “Do you have any names, so I can get my friends started?” Tori said in a voice full of self-assurance.

  Justin glanced at the young man and saw himself, fifteen, maybe twenty years earlier. Or maybe he can really get stuff done. “Sure, I’m looking for Idris. No last name.”

  Tori frowned and scratched his goatee. “Idris isn’t in Erbil.”

  Justin tried to contain his frustration at the young man’s hasty conclusion. “And where would he be?”

  Tori shook his head, an
d a frown creased his face. “Not in Erbil, probably not in this part of Kurdistan.”

  Oh, so this is how your friends get started? Justin shook his head at the less-than-helpful thought. “How about Mehmet Efendi? Can we start—”

  “Yes, yes,” Tori interrupted him. “We can find Mehmet.” He pulled out a cellphone from one of his chest rig pouches.

  Justin nodded. “I just want to talk to him. Don’t rough him up, unless you have to. But, I need him alive.”

  Tori nodded. “If he’s in Erbil, you’ll get to interrogate him as soon as we arrive.” The cockiness had returned to his voice.

  Justin wanted to believe Tori and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, and whatever your friends need in return—”

  “You’ve done so much for our people and especially for Azade,” Tori said. “This is only a small way we can show we’re grateful.” He looked at Azade and gave her a broad smile.

  Azade seemed to blush at Tori’s glance, but did return a shy smile.

  Justin nodded. It made sense if Tori had feelings for Azade. It would explain his willingness to escort them to Erbil and to offer his help without asking for anything in return. Justin felt relief mixed with gladness that Azade had an admirer, if not a potential boyfriend. Justin did not want her to hide any feelings she might have for Tori. Justin had returned and had gone way out of his way for Azade. But he was going away, returning to his girlfriend, Karolin.

  He reached for a piece of flatbread and scooped the last of the beans from his plate. He washed it all down with a long sip of coffee.

  “More rice,” Azade handed Justin the pot.

  “No, I’ve had my fill.” He did not want to eat more than his share.

  “Whatever we don’t finish, it’s lunch.” Azade said. “Nothing goes to waste.”

  “Nothing should. What are we driving?”

  “Tori has found us a Nissan. It’s not new, but it’s not going to break down.”

  “Armored?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “No worries. It’s not the metal that makes the car bulletproof.”

  “It’s the heart?” Azade let out a small giggle.