by Ethan Jones
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Yes, you’ll be a part of any operation we undertake. Now, how did it go with Markov?”
Justin reached into his jacket pocket. “She just sent me this.” He handed Flavio a small thumb drive.
“What’s this?” Flavio held it up between his two fingers.
“Something very interesting. It has to do with the asset, the Austrian asset. And Arkady Krestiyev.”
Flavio frowned as he connected the thumb drive to his tablet. “What did she discover about that SVR operative?”
“You’ll see in a moment, but it’s the reason why the Russians wanted the asset.”
Flavio nodded. He tapped a couple of keys, then studied the file. He scrolled down, then cursed both the asset and the SVR operative. “If . . . how credible is this intel?”
“Straight from GRU.”
“We need to verify this. ASAP. Then I need to talk to the SVR’s directors. They should have informed us this was the reason they wanted the asset.”
“Sir, may I suggest another course of action?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“The SVR has promised to make the asset available for questioning.”
“And you think he’ll talk? In SVR’s presence?”
Justin began to shake his head. “No, that’s not what I’m thinking. If we can arrange for a private chat with the asset, he’ll give us what we need to prove the Russians’ deep involvement in Syria.” Justin tipped his head toward Flavio’s tablet.
Flavio gave Justin a small nod. “You may not be far off. Let’s try to pursue this interrogation angle. The SVR may be more open to that idea.”
“Great, I’ll start on that right away.”
“Vale will assist you in this operation.”
“Vale?”
Flavio leaned back in his seat. “How did it work out with Vale?”
“Excellent. He’s a first-rate operative.”
“So I’m pairing you with him again. He can learn from your experience, and you can rely on him to be a great partner.”
“And what about Carrie?”
“Oh, don’t worry about Carrie. She’s not going anywhere. Well, she’ll be unavailable for this op, since she’s already working on something else.”
Justin was not sure what to make of the new information. He had just talked to Carrie earlier that morning. She had not mentioned being assigned to another operation. Perhaps she was waiting for Flavio to first give me the news.
“Okay, sir. Can I ask what her assignment is?”
“It’s unrelated to yours. Carrie’s being dispatched to Afghanistan. It’s a matter that requires, let’s say, her experience and contacts she has made there.”
Afghanistan? That’s not good. Nothing good ever came out of there.
Flavio closed the folder and put it to the side, on one of the heaps. “That’s all, Justin. Get in touch with Vale and inform me on your progress.”
“Will do, sir.”
Out in the hall, he turned to the left. Vale’s office was just around the corner. Justin took a couple of steps, then stopped and shook his head. No, I need to talk to Carrie first. He pivoted on his heel and headed toward Carrie’s office.
Author’s Note
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Entry Point - Book 3
Chapter One
January 17
Kunduz City, Kunduz Province
Afghanistan
The first few bullets hammered the front entrance of the police station in a poor and dusty neighborhood in the north part of Kunduz City. From behind the bulletproof glass of the “tank”—as Talibans called the armored Humvees wrestled from the local police or military units—Gul Wahidi peered at the mayhem the machine gunner was causing. He was firing an M2 mounted atop the tank, pounding the building with .50 caliber rounds. The gunner was not the greatest shot among the Taliban unit that Wahidi commanded, and many were surprised when Wahidi picked him for this mission. At that time, Wahidi had said that everyone deserved a chance to kill the slaves of the infidels, the Afghanis who had cast their lots with the occupiers.
The M2, a beast of a weapon, was unforgiving even in untrained hands. Bullets were shattering windows, piercing holes in the cinderblock, shredding the thin metal gate cordoning off the building from the street. The Taliban’s goal was to gain entrance inside the police station and kill or maim everyone—commanders, officers, recruits.
Weak return fire came from a couple of the windows at the far end of the building. The shooters were about a hundred yards away. Their small-caliber rounds thumped against the Humvee. Wahidi did not even flinch. Inside the Humvee, they were safe from most of the police weapons. He rubbed his long beard, then mopped sweat from his broad forehead with the back of his hand. Wahidi looked up at the gunner, then cocked his head toward the driver, a young man wearing a black-and-white headdress. “Drive toward the gate. We should be able to blast through.”
The young man nodded. He stepped on the gas and turned the steering wheel. The Humvee covered the short distance separating them from the police station. Then it plowed through the metal gate, crumpling it and tossing it to the side as if made of cardboard.
The Humvee entered the yard, but the gunner did not thunder his weapon. The barrel had gotten very hot and some of the smoke coming from it was seeping inside the Humvee. Instead, the gunner switched to firing an MK48 machine gun, light and portable.
“Park there.” Wahidi pointed at the furthermost corner from the building’s entrance.
The driver frowned and returned a look of confusion. “Why? Closer to the door is better.”
Wahidi shook his head. “Follow my order!” he shouted.
The driver opened his mouth, but then shrugged and yanked at the wheel.
Bullets struck the side of the Humvee. Muzzle flashes flickered from four windows on this side of the L-shaped building—the locations of the return fire.
Wahidi cursed the shooters and thought about his assault tactic. He was attacking with only one vehicle, heavily armored, but still vulnerable to rocket-propelled grenades. The team had not exploded any improvised explosive devices, although three of the fighters had strapped on suicide vests. But the Taliban forces had been decimated by the recent government forces’ attempt to recapture the city, which had been in Taliban hands for the previous two months. So Wahidi could not count on too many fighters for his attack. Besides, the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria was spreading across Afghanistan and contesting many areas in Taliban control. Wahidi and his men did not have a choice when it came to asserting their autho
rity.
But he also had a personal reason for the police station attack. A reason he had kept hidden from everyone around him. A reason Wahidi hoped he could keep a secret until the end of his mission.
The driver stopped the Humvee, then glanced at Wahidi. “Allahu akbar,” he shouted. God is greater.
“Allahu akbar,” Wahidi replied, although a tone of uncertainty crept into his voice.
“Go, run, run!” The gunner shouted and began to pound away with his weapon.
Just as Wahidi pushed open the front passenger door, a police officer stepped out of the station’s door. He was shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, which he pointed at the Humvee. “RPG, RPG!” Wahidi shouted.
He pulled the door shut and dropped down on the seat.
The gunner squeezed off a quick burst.
The bullets kicked up dirt around the police officer, and a couple struck him. But he was able to fire his weapon. The RPG sliced through the air, flying toward the Humvee. It struck the hood and produced a flash of bright orange light. The explosion rocked the vehicle, which was engulfed in gray smoke.
Wahidi coughed and spat out blood. He looked at the driver, who seemed unhurt. The windshield had caved in, but no shrapnel had punctured it. The machine gun went silent, and the gunner fell from the turret. A quick glance told Wahidi that the gunner was dead, bleeding from his face and neck because of shrapnel. Wahidi cursed the policeman but was not upset about losing the gunner. He probably did enough damage already.
“Get out, out, before they fire again,” Wahidi shouted.
Bullets clobbered the door and the window as the smoke began to thin out. Incoming fire from at least three positions had Wahidi’s team pinned down. He gestured at the driver, who seemed paralyzed with panic. “Open the door. Now!”
The young man nodded and moved his hands almost mechanically.
Wahidi followed behind him and carried his AK-74 assault rifle in his right hand. He dropped to one knee with his back against the Humvee. Then he pivoted on his knee and fired a long barrage, emptying almost half his magazine.
The other two team members were also squeezing off round after round from their rifles. Incoming rounds thumped against the other side of the Humvee. A couple of bullets whizzed above their heads. Others ricocheted off a nearby wall.
“What do we do now?” the driver asked.
Wahidi looked at the driver’s trembling hands and at the suicide vest he was wearing. “I’ll cover you and the others, while you advance.” He glanced at the other two Taliban fighters.
One of them nodded.
The other one shouted, “Allahu akbar,” then fired a quick burst.
“All right, get ready,” Wahidi said.
He made his way to the front of the Humvee and double-tapped the AK’s trigger. Then he peered over the mangled hood. Two officers appeared at a second-story window. Wahidi aimed his gun away from them and fired a few rounds. Of course, he missed them, and they disappeared inside the station.
“Reloading,” Wahidi said.
The driver had found his rifle and had mustered a certain amount of courage. He stood up and let off a long volley. The AK bounced wildly in his hands.
Wahidi doubted the driver had hit any of the police officers, let alone killed them. It doesn’t matter. This will all be over soon.
He slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, then nodded toward the driver. “You ready?”
“Yes, yes,” the driver said, but his voice trembled along with his head.
Wahidi thought about encouraging him, but then decided against it. At this point, it was meaningless. “Remember, don’t blow the vests until you’re inside the building.”
The driver nodded and began to mutter a prayer.
Wahidi looked at the other fighters. “Move forward, advance.”
“Allahu akbar,” shouted one of them.
“See you in Paradise, brother,” said the second.
Wahidi nodded. Well, maybe, brother, but not today.
He pointed his rifle at the station and blindly fired a few rounds.
The driver and the two fighters dashed toward the building.
Wahidi stopped firing, even though he was supposed to cover his teammates’ advance.
A police officer appeared at the door. He pointed his rifle at the three Taliban and squeezed off a few rounds. He was probably the worst shot Wahidi had ever seen. The officer’s bullets hit none of the targets, even though they were no further than seventy yards from the officer. And they were moving closer, toward him.
Wahidi shook his head. Time to put an end to this game.
He stood up near the back of the Humvee. Ignoring a couple of bullets that struck inches away from his face, he aimed his rifle at the driver. Wahidi fired a single round that struck the man in the back. The impact of the bullet spun the driver around. He glanced incredulously at Wahidi, then collapsed onto his stomach.
One of the Taliban fighters turned his head.
Wahidi fired again, this time a quick burst. Three bullets struck the Taliban in his chest and head.
The other fighter had turned around. “What’s the matter?” he shouted at Wahidi. “Why are you kill—”
A bullet cut off his words and blood came out of his mouth.
The fighter fell to his knees. He shook his head, then with his quivering hand he reached inside his robe.
Wahidi fell to the ground as the fighter blew up his explosive vest.
A large yellow fireball erupted not too far from Wahidi. The blast wave shattered the Humvee’s windows. A hail of shrapnel and debris struck the vehicle, and one of the fragments cut into Wahidi’s right leg. He cursed the fighter, then slowly climbed to his feet, using the side of the Humvee for support.
Wahidi kept his rifle muzzle down, so the police officers would not misunderstand his intention. But he thought for a moment and dropped the rifle to the ground. After the explosion, the officers would be even more likely to fire as soon as they saw a weapon. Wahidi also unholstered his Beretta 9mm pistol. He weighed it for a moment in his hand, as he reconsidered the consequences of his actions. But it was too late. He could not change his mind, even if he wanted to.
He waited until there was a pause in the gunfire. Wahidi tossed the pistol by the rifle, then raised his hands in the air and stepped around the Humvee. A spiral of smoke and dust was curling up from the site of the explosion, which had formed a foot-deep crater on the ground. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I’m surrendering,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Someone fired a quick burst. Bullets punched the vehicle. Others kicked up dirt around his feet.
“Don’t shoot! No shooting. I’m unarmed. Surrendering,” Wahidi shouted again. He was leaning against the Humvee.
No one fired at him.
Loud shouts came from the police station. Wahidi could not tell what they were saying. He hoped they had heard him and would listen. He dropped down to his knees and kept his hands up in the air. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
Two police officers burst out of the station’s front door. They kept their rifles pointed at Wahidi. One of them said something indistinct. They both advanced toward Wahidi at a quick pace.
“I’m surrendering. Don’t kill me. I have information, important information,” Wahidi cried out at them.
More officers appeared at the station’s windows.
The two police officers stopped when they were about twenty yards away from Wahidi. One of them said, “Open your vest. Slowly.”
Wahidi nodded and moved his right hand slowly along his flak jacket, showing the officers there were no explosives underneath it. “I don’t have a bomb. I’m surrendering—”
“Shut up! Don’t talk,” the second police officer yelled. “And get down, down!” He gestured for Wahidi to lie on the ground.
Wahidi nodded and did as ordered. He placed his face on the coarse sand, some of which got into his mouth. He spat it out, then glanced at the boots of the o
fficers approaching him.
“I need to talk to—”
“What did I tell you about shutting up?” One of the police officers kicked him in his side. Then he slapped Wahidi on the back of his head.
Wahidi spat out sand and blood. He looked up and met the small, dark, vengeful eyes of the policeman. “I . . . I need to talk to . . . to Carrie.”
The officer kicked him again.
The second officer said, “Stop it. Let’s hear him.” He crouched near Wahidi and asked, “What did you say?”
Wahidi groaned in pain. “I have . . . crucial information about an attack.”
The officer nodded. “Our commander will hear you—”
Wahidi shook his head. “I will talk only to Carrie, Carrie O’Connor.”
The officer shook his head. “There is no Carrie here.”
“I know, I know. She’s not an Afghani. Carrie is with the Canadian Army.”
“Canadian Army?” The officer peered at Wahidi. “How do you know her?”
“I will talk only to Carrie. Tell your commander.”
The other officer cursed Wahidi. “I will kill you.” He kicked him again, this time on his leg.
Wahidi clenched his teeth. He shook his head and raised his eyes toward the door. More officers had poured out into the yard now that the attack was over. Near the back, there was an older man Wahidi recognized as the police station chief. “Commander, chief, I need to talk to you.” Wahidi lifted up his body onto his elbows.
“Stay down, you dog.” The officer struck Wahidi on the head with the butt of his rifle.
Wahidi’s head hit the ground, and everything around him went black.
Chapter Two
January 24
North of Baghlan City, Baghlan Province
