“Uh…if you mean from a distance, I guess that would be right,” Blanchett said.
“Damn straight. Not since the days of rocks and, I guess, swords and clubs have we done most of our killing eye to eye. In fact, most military innovation has been a trend to kill from greater and greater distances because one, it’s safer, and two, it has a hell of a demoralizing effect on the enemy.”
Blanchett’s lips twisted. “I get your drift. But it still don’t feel right.”
Again the sergeant was silent for a moment before he spoke. “Nothing wrong with that feeling. The Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and that ain’t something you should ever feel good about ignoring. But sometimes killing evil motherfuckers is necessary, especially if by letting them live, you endanger innocent people you could have saved…or the men and women you serve with and who are counting on you to protect them from the enemy.”
The sergeant clapped him on the shoulder and held on. “Tell you what, cowboy, I’ve done three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and there was several times when the joker shooting at me was close enough and good enough that they nearly made it count. And tell you what: I much preferred killing their buddies from a safe distance with a .50 cal M107. I don’t like it, but I think to myself, ‘What if I don’t take the shot and a week later he takes over a jet and flies it into a civilian office building, or I hesitate to blow his brains all over the yard and before I can come to my senses, the son of a bitch murders an innocent hostage?’ That’s what I think about when I contemplate pulling that trigger.”
Half a world away from the woods where that conversation took place, Blanchett looked back down the scope as the trucks pulled up in front of the house Ivgeny’s men had pointed out as the likely meeting place. The men were hard-faced Dagestani who apparently worked for the Karchovski family business. Ivgeny had introduced them as men he’d served with in Afghanistan—including two Muslims—and their sons.
Jaxon had described the Karchovski business as smuggling black-market goods into Russia and the surrounding area—from vehicles to liquor to designer clothing—and then turning around and smuggling immigrants into the United States. In answer to Blanchett’s unasked question, the agent shrugged and said, “I know…feds and Russian mob bosses make strange bedfellows, but sometimes the enemy of my enemy truly is a great friend.”
Yeah, aren’t we an odd band of desperados, Blanchett thought. A former commie army officer turned gangster, a ranch hand from New Mexico, smugglers, FBI agents…and a female linguist from New York City.
Blanchett furrowed his brow as he thought about Lucy and the danger she was in. When she told him that she, too, was joining Jaxon’s squad, he’d been vehemently opposed. But she’d responded with the fiery spirit that had first attracted him to the gangly young woman from back east.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Ned Blanchett,” she’d responded, her hands on her hips, which he would have found endearing except that she was spitting mad.
“It’s too dangerous,” he tried to reason.
“You mean it’s too dangerous for a girl. But it’s just as dangerous for you, or more so, because I’m sure Uncle Espey will try to keep me out of the action when he can. I don’t know why you think you’re any better at this sort of thing than I am.”
“It’s just something I feel like I’ve got to do for my country.”
“Our country,” she’d corrected him. “I’m just as patriotic as you are. Now get over yourself and accept that I’m in just as deep as you are.”
That had pretty much been the end of the discussion. He’d had to give in, if for no other reason than she stopped listening to his reasons.
“Target should be exiting the vehicle any moment,” said a voice next to him. “Distance 1623 Mike. No breeze.”
Oh yeah, I forgot, Blanchett thought as he made a minor adjustment on the scope. We also got an Indian and a Vietnamese gangster on our side. His spotter lying next to him with binoculars trained on the village was John Jojola, the former chief of police for the Taos Indian Pueblo and a former guerrilla fighter with the army during the Vietnam War. He, too, had been caught up in the Karp-Ciampi family tornado, which was fine with Blanchett because even in his fifties, Jojola was a good man to have in a scrap, and as a spotter for the sniper team.
When Jaxon first went over the mission while they were on a jet winging across the Mediterranean, Blanchett had asked why they weren’t using a Predator unmanned drone armed with a missile to take out Malovo.
“Good question,” Jaxon answered. “But there are several reasons. One, we want to be sure we get her, not just blow up a building; we may never get this sort of intelligence and catch her off guard again. Two, the State Department doesn’t want to get into it with the Russians about taking military action in airspace they consider theirs, even if the locals don’t. And three, we don’t know who all is going to be present at this meeting, and again, the State Department is concerned that a missile strike might cause collateral damage we don’t intend.”
“In other words, somebody we might want on our side someday could die,” Jojola scoffed. “One day they’re terrorists, the next day they’re freedom fighters.”
“Exactly,” Jaxon agreed. “It’s unfortunate that politics get in the way of simply doing what’s right or what’s safer. The State Department wants deniability, and it boils down to making sure Malovo is the target, which Ivgeny and Lucy will confirm, and that we do our best to limit other casualties.”
After entering Dagestan, they’d been escorted by men working for Karchovski and spent several days reconnoitering the countryside and working out the details of their plan.
“How’s security?” Blanchett asked. He could sense Jojola looking carefully around. An hour earlier, with the light fading, Karchovski’s men had crept into position, and at a signal, they cut the throats of the sentinels stationed closest to where Blanchett and Jojola would set up. Karchovski’s men immediately assumed the lookouts’ positions so that no one in the village would raise the alarm. Blanchett and Jojola would be counting on the men to cover their escape as well.
“Good,” Jojola replied in a low voice. He picked up a camera and trained the lens on the village below. “Two men have exited the house to greet our friend. Got a couple good face shots. But she’s still in the truck, like she’s waiting for something…”
Blanchett tensed, wondering if they’d been discovered. Would the men below start charging up the hill while Malovo escaped? He decided that if the trucks started to move, he’d chance a blind shot at the passenger side of the second vehicle, which Karchovski had signaled was the one with his former lover aboard. It wasn’t a great option. The M170 fired a round that would go through a reinforced concrete wall, but he’d still be shooting at a target he couldn’t see.
“There we go,” Jojola whispered, “she was waiting on the bodyguards…. She’s all yours.”
Blanchett fixed the crosshairs on the passenger side of the second truck. He had hoped for a clear shot at his target’s chest, which was a more sure thing than her head. A head was smaller, and sometimes moved out of sync with the body. But Malovo’s guards had moved so close to the truck that he knew his only clear view would be her head.
The door opened and he saw blond hair begin to emerge. He began to slowly let his breath out and ever so gently increased the pressure on the M170 trigger as he waited for his target to stand upright. But instead, Malovo surprised him by stooping as she got out of the car so that he couldn’t see her through her human shield. The group then hurried for the open door of the building, followed by the men who’d come out to greet her.
“Should I take the shot?” he whispered.
“Negative. We’re only going to get one chance. Let’s see if we can’t get a better target when she leaves. She may feel safer when it’s dark. If not, we’ll take the best shot available then.”
Nadya Malovo didn’t relax until she was well inside the house. Granted, if the Americans knew where
she was, they might attempt to kill her with a drone or a cruise missile. But she’d weighed the odds and—without knowing that her hunters had reached the same decision—concluded that the United States would not risk an international incident just to kill her.
She didn’t like putting her life in the control of men she had not personally trained. But the local mullah had a fierce reputation fighting jihad against her countrymen in Afghanistan and the Americans in Iraq. At least he had some experience and battle-tested men.
One of the men who’d walked out of the building on her arrival now pointed to a table on which there were several laptop computers open and running. He was a small man with distinctly Arabic features, which followed, since he was a Saudi. “Salaam, assalamu alaikum,” he said in formal greeting. “Please, have a seat.”
“Salaam,” Malovo replied curtly, then remembered that she was here in part to cultivate this man’s goodwill. “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.” She turned to another of her hosts, a tall, thin black man, and repeated the greeting.
“Salaam,” the man replied with a small bow. He smiled tentatively and added in English, “I apologize, but I don’t speak Arabic.”
Malovo nodded. She’d noted the British accent that identified him as a native of one of that nation’s former Caribbean colonies.
“All Muslims should learn Arabic so that they may read the Qur’an as it was intended,” the first man sniffed arrogantly. “Soon enough, all peoples will be required to speak Arabic, and to learn the Qu’ran. Inshallah.” He smiled condescendingly at the black man. “That means ‘God willing.’”
The black man’s eyes narrowed. “I know what it means,” he hissed.
Malovo had heard enough. She did not have time, or patience, for their spat. How these people believe they can rule the world when they cannot be in the same room without quarreling is a mystery, she thought. But for now my employers need them.
“Since that glorious day is not yet here, we will speak English,” she said, and looked from one man to the other with a smile on her face but murder in her eyes.
The Arab bowed his head. He knew her reputation and decided that perhaps he had dangerously overstepped. “But of course,” he replied. “I did not mean to offend, only a suggestion so that my brother, Omar, might want to learn to read the words of the Prophet in his own language.”
“The words of the Prophet translate in any language to the truth,” Omar grumbled. “But no offense was taken, Ali.”
“Then we will speak no more of it,” Malovo said. It was a command, not a suggestion.
The men nodded and they all sat down at the laptops. “I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation on Operation Flashfire,” Ali said.
Malovo frowned. “You do realize that much of what the Americans have learned about the great jihad has been from computers they’ve seized. They’re good at recovering even material that was thought to have been destroyed.”
Ali’s smile disappeared. “I am aware that others have made that mistake. However, I assure you that only one copy of this presentation will exist when we leave here and that is on a computer far from this place. The hard drives have been programmed so that after we turn off these computers, they will self-destruct when someone attempts to turn them on again.”
Malovo nodded. “Then let’s see what you have gone through such trouble to prepare.”
A half hour later, the three conspirators closed the three laptops. “Your computers have now been rendered worthless,” Ali noted as he closed his and placed it carefully in a case. “Are there any questions?”
“It is a good plan and all appears to be in order as previously discussed,” Malovo replied. “My question is: Are you both prepared to go forward on schedule?”
Omar spoke first. “We are ready.” He and Malovo looked at Ali.
The little man shrugged and looked apologetic. “We are ready, too,” he said. “But you know that there is an unresolved piece of this puzzle. Nothing can be done until the Sheik has been returned to us.”
Amir al-Sistani, curse your duplicity, Malovo thought. “We have been trying to locate the Sheik and effect his…release. But so far we have met only resistance.”
Ali shook his head. “This is not acceptable. We cannot proceed unless he personally allows it.”
Malovo stared malevolently at the man. “We understand that was part of the original arrangement. But this contingency was not part of the Sheik’s otherwise brilliant concept.” The idiot. “Perhaps we did not make it clear that we are willing to pay a bonus for the plan to go forward, even if we cannot produce Mr. al-Sistani.”
Ali made a face as if what he had to say pained him. But in truth, he was enjoying having the upper hand over so formidable a woman. “You and your employer have made it abundantly clear that cost is no object. However, even if we wanted to go forward under such conditions, we could not, as the Sheik has powerful friends in my government who would not betray him.”
“But we are not even sure that he is alive,” Malovo pointed out. “Should jihad be held back because of one man?”
“Depends on the man.” Ali shrugged. “What do your spies tell you?”
“That he lives,” she replied honestly. “But that was two weeks ago. He is in the hands of a madman, and who knows his fate since then.”
“Madman or government agent? I find it hard to believe that a homeless beggar was able to thwart the Sheik’s attack on the stock exchange.”
“We have considered the possibility,” Malovo conceded. “But if he works for the government, no one we know—and we have highly placed sources in all security agencies—is aware of it.”
“Well, it is not our problem,” Ali replied. “It is your problem. Deliver the Sheik or we cannot proceed. Bring him safely back to us, and we guarantee that your schedule will be met and the operation will go forward. Is that not right, Omar?”
The black man nodded. “As God wills.”
Malovo wanted nothing so much as to dig her thumbs into their eyeballs. But that won’t make you rich, she cautioned herself. “Very well, I’ll report that everything is ready, except for arranging the return of Amir al-Sistani.”
Ali smiled and nodded. “Allahu akbar. God is great!”
“Indeed,” Malovo replied. “Allahu akbar! Now, it is time to leave. You will hear from us soon.”
At the doorway, Malovo hesitated and looked outside. The sun had set, and while it would not be absolutely dark for another hour, it would have to do. She did not like to stay in one place very long. At a signal, her bodyguards surrounded her and her two coconspirators and they walked out the door.
As she circled around to the passenger side of the truck, Malovo glanced up at the tall hill. Something wasn’t right. Her well-honed instinct for self-preservation caused her to dart suddenly forward just as a large angry insect zipped past her head. She heard a sound behind her like a melon split open with a hammer and then from the other direction the report of a large-caliber rifle.
Malovo glanced back and saw Ali lying on the ground, the top of his head missing. Sniper! Her mind screamed with the warning as she dropped to the ground and crawled to get under the truck. She looked up just as one of her bodyguards was knocked off his feet as a bullet passed through his chest in a gout of blood.
“Attack, attack!” she screamed, pointing in the direction of the rifle’s report. “Up there.”
Unsure of what they were attacking or in which direction to go, the bodyguards began firing in a variety of directions up at the hills. Two more of her men fell as high-velocity antipersonnel rounds punched cantaloupe-size holes in their chests. Now others were shooting down at them from where their sentinels had been.
However, these were battle-hardened men who quickly organized and began to direct their fire toward the unseen enemy on the hill. Two heavy machine guns were quickly set up and began raking the hillside, while other men began charging toward the enemy position with their assault rifles and rocke
t-propelled grenades.
With the firefight raging, Malovo felt the moment had come to make her escape. She jumped up and opened the door of the truck. The bewildered and frightened driver sat in his seat with his hands gripping the steering wheel. “Drive, you idiot,” she screamed.
The men she’d arrived with saw what was happening and ran for their trucks as the local men continued the fight. The trucks lurched forward and circled to leave the village the way they’d entered.
The driver’s-side window of the truck Malovo was in disappeared along with the front of the driver’s neck. He clasped his throat with both hands and looked at his passenger as if hoping she would know what he should do next. Her response was to lean over and open his door, and then shove him out as she slid into his seat. She stomped on the gas pedal and the truck roared down the road.
“Let’s go, Ned,” Jojola yelled as slugs from a machine gun stung the ground above their heads.
“Dammit, I missed her!” Blanchett swore. He sighted down through the scope—now operating on night-vision settings—and fired at the fleeing truck below with no noticeable affect.
“Couldn’t be helped, she ducked at just the wrong moment,” Jojola replied. “One of those other jokers took it instead.”
“I don’t even know who he was. Maybe he’s one of those guys the State Department was worried about.”
“Fuck that,” Jojola replied. “He wasn’t here collecting for the March of Dimes. He’s a bad guy and so are the rest of those assholes you nailed. But a bunch more of them are heading this way. We’ve got to move.”
A rocket-propelled grenade struck the slope twenty-five yards away, showering them with debris. The two men jumped up and began running over the top of the hill as Ivgeny’s men on the other hillsides gave covering fire.
Out of sight, they paused a minute to catch their breath. “I can’t believe I missed,” Blanchett moaned.
Jojola turned and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Ned, forget it,” he said. “I’ve missed plenty of easier shots. You can’t account for the target doing something unexpected. Besides, Ivgeny has a little surprise waiting. She’s in a panic and heading right for him.”
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 8
