by J C Ryan
There’s always a first for everything, he tried to pacify himself.
The fact was, any one of Brandt’s agents might have been capable of what the Senator had reported, but he knew one who was almost certainly capable of it. He’d dismissed Brandt’s stories about the Ghost as hyperbole before. What if they weren’t? Correction. I now know beyond a doubt that they weren’t. Shit… shit… shit…
Carson wasn’t a particularly intelligent man, but he had a rat’s sense of self-preservation. It wasn’t a great leap of intuition to believe that, even though it seemed impossible for one of Brandt’s men to have escaped and created all this havoc, there was still a possibility. And if that man happened to be the Ghost, the almost super-human operative that Brandt had described, then it wasn’t a great leap of intuition to believe he might be coming for the man he believed responsible for the explosion.
Wait, why am I even thinking like this? One man can’t do it. However…
Before he’d thought it all through, he was called to the White House to be briefed on the matter. The President was concerned that the attacks on the wealthy drug lords were an unauthorized CIA hit. If only he knew the truth, Carson thought, a cold trickle of sweat sliding down his lower back. But he hadn’t gotten to his current position by being a bad liar. Carson was a talker and a bullshitter par excellence, so good at it he was now the DCIA — on his way to take the seat of the man asking him the uncomfortable questions now.
“Absolutely not, Mr. President,” he said, with complete veracity. “I believe it is probably the beginning of a shift in the local power base.” He went on at length, using jargon to confuse the issue. After ten minutes, the President accepted his analysis, apologized for his earlier insinuation, and thanked Carson for his diligence. Carson was dismissed and went back to Langley thinking he’d dodged one bullet.
As soon as he reached his office, he called John Brandt. “We have a situation. How soon can you be here?” It was 11:00 a.m. in Virginia.
Brandt, in Arizona, had been up for two hours. He’d had a bad day yesterday and a bad night last night, so he was tired and not in the mood for taking orders from a piss-ant like Carson.
“Why don’t you come here for a change?” he snapped. Of course, he knew the reasons it wouldn’t happen and wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want you here on the double,” Carson answered.
“Text me the address,” Brandt said, wearily. He and his CIA contacts never met at Langley, they were not allowed to be seen to have any official contact with each other. Their dealings happened in safe houses, secured hotel rooms, obscure restaurants, and the like. He’d go. He had no choice. Between flight time and ground time, once he landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National, the closest airport to Langley, it would be around 7:00 p.m. local time.
26
Ghazni, Afghanistan, June 24, 9:15 a.m.
AN UNFAMILIAR KIND of exhaustion had taken hold of Rex. It was not just the sleep loss; it was the result of a combination of many factors that made it feel as if there was a vast emptiness inside him. The nervous tension of the past few days, starting with the loss of his friends, the concussion, the trek into the mountains and back, the killings, were all things he had done and experienced before. What got to him this time was the cognizance that for the second time in his life he was alone again; no friends, no family, no country, and no one he could trust. This time he had no organization he could join. He was on his own, he and Digger. The crushing thoughts plus the almost three-hour drive combined to make him want to close his eyes. When, after what felt like eternity, he got to the outskirts of Ghazni, he was profoundly grateful to have reached his destination without nodding off and running off the road and down one of the ridges it followed.
He found a hotel and checked in without bothering to inform the desk clerk of his companion. The arrangement was strictly between him and the clerk, who accepted cash against hotel policy, as well as a bribe to not ask for ID or enter anything about his visit into the register. Another ten-dollar bill, showed to the clerk but not to be handed to him until Rex left, allowed him to pick a room on the ground floor with a window that had a parking place immediately in front of it. When he got to the room, he stuck his head out the window to see the best way to get Digger inside. He left the window open and went to move his SUV and retrieve his luggage.
Less than five minutes later, Digger had jumped through the open window. By the time Rex returned to the room, Digger had taken his half of the bed out of the middle.
“Now wait just a minute, mutt,” Rex protested. “You and I need to have a serious talk about your bedside manners. I understand I have to share the bed, but you need to pick one side or the other.”
Digger opened one lazy eye, thumped his tail, and closed his eye again. He was going to ignore Rex, that much was obvious, unless Rex moved him physically. Digger probably knew Rex wouldn’t do it. They were not that close yet.
Rex grinned. He knew what would get Digger off the bed. He opened the backpack with food in it and grabbed some of the lamb jerky, cut a piece of it with his KA-BAR, sat down in the chair and started eating it, avoiding all eye contact with the dog. After a while he slowly turned his gaze in Digger’s direction and waved a piece at him.
“Oh, you want some chow? I thought you were asleep.”
Digger jumped from the bed immediately.
Rex dropped the jerky, jumped out of the chair, and made a running leap at the bed. He was almost asleep when Digger returned, circled his side a couple of times, and settled in a curl, his back just inches from Rex’s stomach.
Four hours later, Rex’s internal clock woke him. He could have used another solid four hours of sleep. Truth be told, at that moment he felt like sleeping until he was so tired of it he would need to rest. The dreamless sleep he just had was much, much better than the dark clouds of depression engulfing him when he was awake. But he wasn't far enough from Kabul. By now, he assumed, authorities would be looking for the SUV he’d stolen. He needed to trade the license plates, and rough up the vehicle to make it look old and derelict. Kick a few dents in the sides, crack some of the windows, and add some mud and soil to the road dust already on the vehicle before he set out again for Kandahar.
It would have been nice to get some hot food, too, but he didn’t want to take the time or the risk. So, he made a meal from the supplies in the backpack, gave Digger more lamb jerky, and let him lick out of his cupped hand half of one of the four bottles of water he’d collected at Usama’s house. Then, he gathered his possessions out to the SUV, leaving the window open again and Digger in the room until he was ready. Once in the vehicle, he called, “Digger, come,” and was rewarded with the sight of the magnificent dog sailing out the window at his command.
“You mind me when you want to, don’t you boy?” he asked rhetorically.
Digger just smiled.
Moments later, they were on their way to the next stop, Kandahar. Rex looked forward to a good meal there, before they headed for the border another two hours away. He hoped to be in Pakistan by bedtime.
CROSSING THE BORDER from Afghanistan to Pakistan was not going to be like quickly jumping the neighbor’s fence to take a shortcut through their backyard to go and play with friends when they were kids. The two countries, although large parts of their population had the same heritage, didn’t have the most neighborly of relations. Afghanistan blamed Pakistan for most of its terrorist troubles, while Pakistan denied it and in turn accused Afghanistan of exporting its drugs through their country. Neither was wrong.
Driving an SUV, irrespective of the condition, was the mark of a wealthy Afghan. Rex expected he’d be stopped and his vehicle searched if he tried to enter Pakistan at any official border crossing. It had been more than thirteen hours since he’d left Usama’s home burning. By now, there could be whatever Afghanistan’s equivalent was of a BOLO, be on the lookout, and an APB, all-points bulletin, out for the vehicle. Probably they’d
be looking for the original license number, and he’d taken pains to switch them in Ghazni, but a stop-and-search would also leave him scrambling for identity papers.
He had some, of course. In fact, he had quite a few different passports. He always had them when he traveled to other countries. There were a few problems though. None of them matched his current clothing or appearance, now sporting the appropriate facial hair for a Middle Eastern man of his age. But those were things easily rectified. The main issue was he didn’t have any of those papers with him. They were with all with his personal stuff in the Phoenix compound to which he dared not return. Furthermore, those ID’s were useless to him as they had been issued by CRC who monitored their use and would pick it up the moment he used any of them for any border crossing or any other official reason where it would be recorded.
During the long drive from Kabul, he’d had plenty of time to think about his situation. Any angle he approached it from led him to the point where he had to admit his situation was precarious, at best.
To remain alive, he had to remain dead, and dead people had no need for papers.
There was no way he could cross the border at any official crossing. Fortunately, the Afghan border town of Spin Boldak had spilled across the border itself and was only a handful of miles from the Pakistani town of Chaman, where he’d planned to spend the night. If he could find an appropriate vehicle to switch plates with as soon as he was in Pakistan, it would be a fairly easy task to find a gully or dry wash to lead him across the border.
He only had to look out for drug interdiction patrols on the Pakistani side. Rex found himself thinking about borders and what it said about relationships between countries. For instance, the one between America and Canada was the longest unprotected border in the world — testimony to the good relationships between the two countries. In sharp contrast to that there were countries obviously not enjoying the same type of good relations, who had high walls, electric fences, and all kinds of electronic surveillance, including drones, between them. Those were testimony about less friendly relations.
Pakistan and Afghanistan were in the process of digging a trench between them. In some areas it was six feet deep, and in others it was eleven feet deep and fourteen wide. Rex wasn't sure how exactly to interpret what a trench said about their relationship but was sure at the very least it meant they didn’t like each other.
The US's southern border with Mexico? Well, that was a different matter altogether. One for debating - political debate that is. As far as Rex was concerned, the ramshackle condition of the southern border fences, or in many places the lack thereof, was probably testimony to the unwillingness of the parties to make up their minds if they wanted a protected border or not, or their mutual reluctance to do anything to improve it. The fences or the relations.
Since Rex had gathered the intel about the Afghan-Pakistan trench border months ago himself, he was certain he could trust it.
His most trusted asset for both issues, the lack of papers and finding a good place for crossing the border, however, was sitting in the passenger seat. This asset was excitedly holding his head out the half-open window. By the looks of it, it seemed as if Digger got a big kick out of the air rushing into his nose and open mouth while he was peering out the window as if he knew he’d be called upon to scout soon. As if he were already sniffing the air in preparation.
It was about eight-thirty in the evening when Rex entered the Afghan border town. Cruising through the poor neighborhoods in any type of car was not a good idea, so he stashed the SUV in the parking lot of the only hotel in town and took Digger on a ramble through the nearby neighborhoods. Three miles from the hotel, he found a road that crossed a dry wash, which led in the right direction, southeast. He’d cross here. He planned to dump the SUV as soon as he reached India and found someone who’d sell him a less memorable vehicle with legitimate plates. Preferably someone who’d take cash, ask no questions, and had a deliberate bad memory.
The plan was laughably simple, but it worked.
By 10:00 p.m. he’d checked into another hotel, this time in Chaman, south of the Wesh-Chaman border crossing, a city with a little over four-hundred thousand people and the second-largest city of the Balochistan Province of Pakistan.
Again, Rex paid cash and, adding a generous tip to the desk clerk for anonymity, no entry into the guest register and a room of his choice. He promised another tip in the morning if he was left undisturbed, and for the first time in days, he and Digger enjoyed a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Digger, of course, had to be smuggled into the hotel in similar fashion to the last. As he went to sleep, it dawned on Rex that this was going to be his new normal life until he could establish a new identity and a base of operations somewhere. Or maybe not a base of operations, which would make him vulnerable to discovery. He drifted off while cataloguing the European cities where he’d rather live and be far more comfortable than in any Middle Eastern location.
27
Langley, Virginia, 7:12 p.m., June 24
AT A SMALL but private restaurant near CIA Headquarters, Bruce Carson was leaning into John Brandt’s personal space and inviting a punch in the nose.
Brandt didn’t appreciate the encroachment nor the endless stream of verbal diarrhea from Carson’s mouth.
When he’d gotten the call eight hours earlier, he’d known something out of the ordinary was up. Otherwise, the DCIA would have just told him on the phone what was on his mind. They had secure com links, naturally. Whenever he was summoned to Langley in the past, it was serious business. However, it had only happened once during Carson’s time as DCIA, and that was for a meet and greet. So, this must be something serious then, he thought.
The news that he’d lost his best operative, a man he considered as close as a son, was too fresh. Brandt had briefly considered this was about Rex, but it didn’t make sense. Carson had been heartless enough to report the news of Rex’s death on the phone, so he surely wouldn’t be asking him to come to Langley for less momentous news. But Carson was a political animal with higher aspirations than DCIA, so there was no telling what he could be up to now.
Now, what Carson was dancing around he couldn’t imagine, but the man’s foul breath in his face, enhanced tenfold by the vodka he was drinking, was about to make him lose his temper. Carson had been asking some strange questions about how his operators might carry out an assignment. He’d told the man countless times that he wouldn’t answer that kind of question. He did so again, “Carson there is no point in asking questions like that. I already told you that the first time we met.”
“What do you mean, questions like that?”
“It means I won’t answer your questions, and I want you to get to the point, Carson,” he said. “You had me schlep all the way here. Do me the courtesy of not beating around the bush now.”
“All right. Here’s the long and the short of it. Early this morning, the four top opium lords in Afghanistan were executed in a particularly brutal fashion, and the home of the top guy where they met was destroyed by arson. It was those same guys who were supposed to turn up at the house where your guy and his team would have surprised them a few days ago.
“Whoever did it managed to kill several servants, a security advisor, and six guards, along with the principals. The Afghan government is up in arms. They’ve accused us of doing this and threatened to expel the ambassador and all our troops.”
Brandt interrupted. “So, what's the problem? They're dead. That's what you wanted. What bugs me is the Afghan government is basically admitting that these pigs are operating with their full cooperation?”
“Pigs?”
“The drug lords, Carson.” Brandt injected all the disgust and sarcasm he could into those four words.
“That’s beside the point. We didn’t do it.”
Beside the point for you, maybe, Brandt thought. Aloud, he asked, “Who’s we? The US government, or your people?”
“Neither,” snapped Carson. �
�I mean both. Shit. Neither the government nor my people, as you so elegantly put it, authorized or participated in this operation. You’re here to answer for your people. Specifically, for the man who wrote all those reports asking permission to do exactly what was done last night?”
Brandt felt a spark of excitement deep within. Could it be? It lasted for a brief moment only. Outwardly, he didn’t show it. Instead, he counterattacked.
“Back the hell off, Carson. You told me not forty-eight hours ago that my man there was killed in an ambush that I’m still wondering who set.
“Strangely enough, if it is as you said, what happened last night - the killing of the drug lords - isn’t that exactly what you ordered me to get my man over there to do? Why now, suddenly, is it such a big deal that they are dead?
“Furthermore, you’re accusing me of what now? Spell it out, preferably in words of one syllable, because I’m not getting what you’re saying.”
Carson leaned back on his chair. He had said too much, better to quickly turn the conversation in another direction. “We have reason to believe this was the work of one or more highly trained operators. An operator or operators with the skills and training like the men of your outfit have.”
“Bullshit. One man? Carson, what have you been smoking? One man? You should stop watching those action hero movies, man. You described something that would take a team of at least four, if not more,” Brandt said, knowing he was bluffing. Rex could have done it, and if he were alive, would have done it.
“Not even your wunderkind? Your Ghost?” Carson asked.
“Especially not him,” Brandt lied. “That’s not his MO. Besides, I’d never send my best man to babysit a pure intel assignment for over a year. He’s got much better things to do. And let me tell you, just in case you were thinking different, for the past year I only ever had one of my men in Afghanistan. Definitely not a team of four or more, which would be required to pull off what you’ve described.
