by R G Ainslee
I returned the weapon and rummaged through the kitchen drawers. "How 'bout this one?" I held up a semi-auto pistol.
He furrowed his brows. "Looks almost like a Hi-Power. Seen it somewhere, can't recall—"
"MAB P 15, nine-millimeter. French." I dropped the magazine into my hand. "Fifteen rounds and fully loaded."
Jack snorted. "You must have a pretty intimate relationship with this gal to know where she hides her weapons. Thought you were just friends. Is there some detail you're not telling me?"
"Not what you think. Tell you later." I replaced the magazine and handed the weapon to Jack. "Let's go."
* * *
The PTT building was next to the Kabul Hotel, scene of the assassination. Police and soldiers still swarmed over the area. The taxi driver left us two blocks away. We separated so Jack could find an observation point across the street. I ambled in nonchalantly trying to appear like another desperate hippie about to call home for cash.
Of course, they didn't have direct dialing to the states. I gave the clerk my number, paid a deposit, and found a seat. An hour later, they called my name and directed me to a private booth. Moments later, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver. A woman was on the line, Sarah.
"Hi, sorry to bother you so late, or is it early. — It's me, Ross."
"Ross, they said the call was from Afghanistan. Are you with Lisette? Is there a problem?"
"No, I just arrived. Spoke to Lara, but haven't seen her, she's away for a couple of days."
"I'm so glad she was able to contact you. She called from Paris and asked me to care for the cat a little longer."
"I need to speak with Jim, put him on."
"He's not here. They called him back to Washington when you went missing. We have been so worried. Are you all right?"
"I'm okay. Can you call him? It's real important."
"Why sure, I'll have him call you in the morning. We have been so worried."
"Not possible, having embassy problems again — remember Nairobi. Call him right away and have him get with Wilson. Jack and I are here in Kabul and having problems."
"Oh, I saw on TV about the poor ambassador."
"I'm right next door to where he was killed. Tell him, Wilson can contact us through Lara at the French embassy." Lara will kill me for this. "Tell him I have what we're looking for. He'll know what I'm talking about. Can't say anymore."
"Yes, I'll call right away. Ross, Jim is worried. I think something happened in Washington he didn't like. He couldn't tell me, but he was upset. We have been so worried—"
The operator said my time was up. I told Sarah good-by and hung up. Forgot to ask her if she had any word about Amadeo. Wouldn't know anyway. What's Jim upset about?
Returned to the desk, paid the rest of the bill, and stepped out the front door. Jack was nowhere in sight. Didn't surprise me, he was in the shadows somewhere. Didn't need to look for him, he'd find me.
I crossed the near empty street. A squad of soldiers stood guard in Pushtunistan Square and only a few pedestrians dared cross over to the far side. Down the street, I hesitated in front of a glass door. Jack was inside and motioned for me to stay put.
I edged over beside the entrance, trying to remember Jack's situational awareness tips. Everything appeared normal. A tap on the glass, he motioned for me to join him.
"What's up?"
"We or at least you have a tail, spotted him when you went inside. Did you notice an Afghan wearing a blue sport coat?"
"No." Let my guard down once again, should've been checking everyone.
"He followed you into the building and has been waiting outside ever since — here he comes. Step outside and go back into the PTT. I'll see if he follows again. Stay one minute and then walk back to Chicken Street to the teashop, I'll follow. Be careful and don't let him know you're on to him. Walk facing traffic so they can't pull up behind you with a car. — Got it?"
Before I could answer, Jack shoved me through the door and I almost ran head on into the man. Cut a left, crossed the street, and re-entered the PTT. He didn't follow me inside.
I waited for a count of sixty and stepped out again. Off to the right, the blue coat leaned against a small car, smoking a cigarette. I crossed the street to the square, didn't look back, but sensed his presence. The soldiers gave me little notice and I strolled up the street past the Kabul Hotel.
Being followed is a weird feeling. This was different from the man in Kathmandu, he seemed harmless, almost a game. These guys were serious. The urge to turn around and look was overwhelming. Sometimes you have to go on trust. I trusted Jack. He was there somewhere, watching my back.
I ambled along Chicken Street for a half-block past the teashop and then wheeled around. The guy, about ten yards back, was taken by surprise and continued down the street. I retraced a few steps and passed the man with the blender, now selling milk shakes. Entered the front door and found a table at the back. The place, noisy with idle talk, was half-full, about a dozen customers, all Westerners.
The shifty looking guy wearing the blue sport coat returned, lingered at the front window, peered in for a moment, and moved on. Jack ambled past across the street. A minute later the guy re-appeared, entered the shop, and claimed the closest table to the door.
A waiter finally made his presence known and I ordered a Nescafe. Jack strolled by once again across the street. The blue sport coat ordered tea. We had a standoff. I wasn't sure what to do next.
Halfway through my coffee, Jack entered and sat at the next table, facing away from me. I paid him no attention.
After the waiter took his order, Jack leaned down, pretending to pick an object off the floor, and whispered, "Wait a minute, then go out the back door and head to Lara's. We'll meet there."
I finished my coffee and headed towards the rear. The blue sport coat noticed and jumped up. The back door led to a narrow open passageway, I scooted left, towards the French embassy. Yelling echoed from the shop. I glanced back — not a soul — and jogged to an opening that led out to a street, cut a right, and resumed a fast walk. I checked over my shoulder at the corner — the coast was clear. A few streets later, I entered Lara's compound.
* * *
"Have you been fighting?" Lara had come home to check on us and the first thing she noticed was Jack's black eye. She glared at me with disgust, "I should have known."
"Only a little misunderstanding," said Jack. "Nothing to worry about."
He didn't tell her what happened. The blue sport coat tripped over an outstretched foot when he rushed past Jack's table. In the ensuing altercation, Jack made a loud accusation about a pickpocket and they exchanged a few blows. It worked. The guy scurried out the front door. Jack slipped out the back and rejoined me moments later.
Lara had the looks of a classy lady: attractive in her mid-thirties, mid length raven black hair, about my height, and obviously physically fit. She wore dark pants, a long robe like coat, and a headscarf, most likely a concession to Afghan sensibilities. A female Intel officer must be a challenging job in Afghanistan, or in her case a punishment.
"Say Lara, any chance we can borrow your pistol?" I said, trying to change the subject.
She responded with a withering stare. "I am sure you have found it already. Do you need the extra magazine? Look in the desk."
Jack chuckled, I blushed, and she remained deadpan. "Guess it wouldn't hurt."
"Did you not remember? I told you not to call me at my embassy."
"We haven't called—"
"No — but you have been distributing my number to your colleagues. I received a call, a message for you. Am I to be your receptionist too? Is it not enough, I supply you with a place to sleep and now, weapons?" She opened the cupboard to check to see if the machine gun was still there.
Jack piped up, "Nice shotgun you have under the bed."
Lara unleashed a torrent of French. I only understood a little, but what I understand wasn’t suitable for polite company. Jack seemed to understand it all, turn
ed on the charm, kissed her hand, and offered apologies. It worked. She calmed down and told us about the phone call.
"A man who identified himself as John Smith — obviously a crude alias — called and asked me to give you a message."
"That's his real name. What'd he say?"
"This John Smith," she didn't appear convinced, "wants you to go to the American embassy and speak to Mister Simmons or Mister Pettigrew. They will provide you with — how did he say? — further instructions."
"That's it? Was he back in the states?"
"He did not reveal his location, except the call was from Tehran. He was not a talkative man."
Tehran? … "We talked with Don … I mean Pettigrew this morning, he wasn't much help."
She rolled her eyes. "You can imagine, in my profession we have certain people. He is one of them." She noticed my puzzled expression. "A dinosaure."
Jack let out a hearty laugh. "Wouldn't put it exactly like that, but I agree."
32 ~ Suslov
Thursday Afternoon, 15 February: US Embassy, Kabul
Simmons office was standard state department issue. His cover title at the embassy must have been some sort of agricultural attaché. The walls covered with pictures of sheep and goats along with a framed degree from Utah State.
As luck would have it, Jack and Simmons were acquainted, having worked together on Jack's earlier assignment in country. Jack had never said if he dealt with the embassy. You learn something new every day.
"Sorry you've been inconvenienced, but you can understand what we've been through." Simmons, in his late thirties, dressed in jeans, khaki shirt, and cowboy boots, looked like a farmer. "It appears we'll begin the process of closing some of our aid programs and evacuating non-essential personnel in a few days. Some dependent personnel are on a flight out, as we speak. We may be able to get you on a flight in a few days."
"You think it's gonna get worse?" I was thinking of Lisette.
"They think so back in Washington. In any case, it’s partly show, a protest over the killing."
Jack asked, "Can you tell us about your investigation?" I was surprised he asked. CIA people usually don't talk shop with strangers. Apparently, working together undercover tends to forge close friendships and trust. I had a much better feeling about Simmons, hopeful we would get some cooperation at last.
"Not much to tell. The ambassador's dead, and so far, we’re not getting much cooperation from the Afghan authorities."
"Can you tell us what happened?"
"Four armed men dressed in police uniforms hijacked his car at a downtown intersection and carried him to the Kabul Hotel. They demanded one of their leaders be released from prison. The government refused, and negotiations failed. About twelve-thirty, gunfire erupted, and the ambassador was killed. At this time, we can't tell if he was murdered by design or hit in the crossfire. They claim to have attempted a rescue, but, far as I'm concerned, the jury's still out on that one."
"Were you on scene?"
"They excluded us from the command post but allowed the Soviet embassy's security chief to be present. We attempted to contact the president and other high officials but were given the run around."
"Is this an isolated incident or is there more to come?"
"Personally, I believe it was an isolated incident. However, Pettigrew here believes the worst."
Inexplicably, Don's attitude had done a full one-eighty. Neither he nor Simmons mentioned our earlier exchange. They stared but didn't ask about Jack's black eye.
"Regarding the incidents south of town, I have evidence foreign elements are involved." Don puffed up and continued, "My contacts over at the Soviet embassy tell me a gang of guerillas led by two foreign mercenaries ambushed a Soviet officer on the road and attacked a guard post on the main highway."
"Mercenaries." Is he on to us? "Any Idea where they're from?"
"My guess is Rhodesian or South African."
He didn't have a clue. Simmons glanced in my direction. Apparently, he shared my thoughts.
I wanted to change the subject. "Is it safe to travel around — say up to Bamiyan. Always wanted to see those … ah, statues."
"You must be out of your freaking mind," exploded Don, "its suicide to leave Kabul, been that way for months. No one ever leaves without an armed escort."
Simmons broke in, "Don, why don't you take these gentlemen down to the communications center and let them send their message. When you 'all are finished come on back up."
A subdued Don Pettigrew escorted us to the communications center. Uncharacteristically, he remained silent. I couldn't even begin to guess what transpired between him and Simmons or what Wilson said in his message. Whatever it said, worked. A secure telephone line was unavailable. I sent an encrypted message via teletype:
TO: Dir SSRP
FROM: Raven One
Arrived Kabul 2 days ago. Contact with KGB Suslov, shots fired, under surveillance, situation fluid. Am in possession of tape and signal parameters from T-2. Intercept found likely Cochise project signal encoding in third harmonic. May confirm preliminary assessment of new S-300 capabilities. Advise status of Ruiz. Please be advised wife is here also. Advise how to proceed.
While waiting for Wilson's answer, I thought of Lisette. I hadn't spoken with her since we left Tehran. What was she thinking? How can we afford her running all over the place? My poor credit card must be maxed out by now.
Ten minutes later, an answer chattered out over the teletype:
TO: Raven One
FROM: Dir SSRP
Send intercept material via diplomatic courier ASAP. Evacuation CONUS at discretion of ambassador.
The colonel's message was short and sweet, no congratulations, no glad you're safe, didn't mention Amadeo, and no reference to Lisette. Never asked why we ended up in Kabul. It sounded like we were on our own. Again.
I sent the following message:
TO: Dir SSRP
FROM: Raven One
Intercept log and tape via diplomatic courier ASAP per instructions. Absent further instructions, a tactical diversion will be initiated until evacuation can proceed.
"What do you mean by tactical diversion?" asked Jack.
"Means we'll do whatever we want 'til we leave. I don’t plan to sit on my butt here at the embassy, while they dither around back in Washington. Let's find a ride and head out to Bamiyan."
"Think that's a good idea?"
"You said I'm the boss. So… I'm exercising initiative based on the realities on the ground." Read it somewhere, anyway it sounded good, like I knew what I was doing. "You know what they say, fortune favors the bold."
Jack made a pained expression. He knew it was BS. "Okay, but I think we better leave before Wilson figures out what you're up to."
"Maybe we should wait for an answer, so we'll both know?"
"Very funny?" He thought I was joking.
"I think I will have met my obligation to Wilson when the stuffs on the way. Now I'll deal what I believe is genuinely important."
"Regardless of the consequences?"
"Yeah, what must be done, will be done. Any problems with that?"
"Nah. Didn't plan on being a career guy anyway."
We left the Comm center and returned to Simmons office. He was alone.
"You get through all right?"
"Sure, no problem. We have instructions to turn over some material to be sent out by diplomatic courier. What do we need to do?"
"How big and is it classified?"
"Fit in a legal sized manila envelope and classified Top Secret Crypto. Send to Special Signals Research Project at Bolling field in D.C."
"That's a new one on me."
"Yes, and that's all I can say."
"Got ya. No problem. Let's go back over to the Comm Center and get you a secure documents package. It can go out on tomorrow's flight. Okay?"
"Yeah, thanks?" A pleasure to deal with a cooperative soul for a change, Simmons didn't even ask what it was all about, and
Jack's new passport was ready. The guy was a real pro.
On the way down the hall, Simmons recalled, "Have some news for you. You're on a flight leaving on Monday. Not sure about the time yet, give me a call."
"Last flight from Saigon," I quipped.
Simmons' expression changed. "I was on the last flight from Saigon."
"Sorry, bad analogy." Tried to sound apologetic, sometimes I step in it big time.
"No offence taken. Hope this situation turns out better. The loss of the ambassador hit us hard. He was a good man. His type don't come along very often. We're going to miss his expertise."
We met Martin, the comm center guy, at the door, "Mister Brannan, a message for you, its inside."
Jack said, "Guess we find out Wilson's answer." I remained silent in the presence of Simmons and Martin.
Martin handed me the red-bordered folder with top secret emblazoned in large letters. I read the message. My body went numb. Blood rushed to my head. I struggled to compose myself.
Jack noticed my distress. "You okay?"
Took a deep breath and handed the folder back to Martin. "Destroy the message … eyes only, compartmentalized…" My voice trailed off.
Martin asked, "Any reply?"
"No. Just destroy it, that's all."
We packaged the tape and notes and handed them over to Martin for the diplomatic pouch. Our business finished, we headed for the front gate.
Jack had recognized the worry in my eyes but remained silent until we were outside. "Are you going to tell me—"
"Wilson's out. Hansen's in charge of the project."
"What the hell…"
"The bastard's ordering us to stand down and put ourselves in custody of the ambassador." I reasoned that was why Barker was upset. He knew about my personal problems with Hansen.
"Let me guess — you plan to ignore him."
"You have to ask?"
"Okay, but now what?"
"We need to leave the embassy before the ambassador—" Wait a minute he's dead. "Or whoever is in charge finds out."
"Hold it." Jack grabbed my arm and held me back after we passed through the front gate on to the street. "We got company."
Suslov, dressed in civilian clothing, sat in a light green Soviet made Lada sedan, directly across the street. What's more, he recognized us. The major stared directly at me with an icy cold stare, the look of a predator about to pounce.
