by Dan Fox
Ashiq began to appreciate the enormity of the task ahead of him and accordingly explained this to his bosses and gradually upped the amount of money he would need to finance the job. As always they were impressed with the thoroughness of his planning and whilst arguing about the overall cost, had no problem in eventually letting him have the finance he needed.
Slowly the part assembled convoy headed for south-east Iran, several days drive away. It picked up more vehicles and skills along the way so that when it had travelled half distance the complement was complete and numbered almost twenty people.
Ashiq realised that they would have to arrive at the airfield at night and preferably in cloudy conditions. They also needed to be some distance from it and spread out until night appeared. Under cover of darkness they could hide all the vehicles in the big aircraft hangar and effect such repairs as it needed when they arrived.
He needed to send an advance party to contact all the families within a few miles of the airfield to explain what was going to happen and force money into their hands to keep them quiet and cooperative. His bosses had given him an original timetable of three weeks, but also told him that the target date might change depending on unforeseen circumstances. Of course he was not told what those circumstances could be.
As they approached within fifty miles of the disused Al Gharam air base it was late afternoon and sufficient darkness would descend in the next few hours. There was little cloud cover yet so they would have to be more than careful how much of a trail they left behind, but a weather front was approaching from Pakistan to the east and he hoped it would arrive before they moved to the base itself.
A smaller van with two armed assistants had left the convoy a couple of days earlier and headed for the area around the air base travelling towards it at a much faster pace. They had reported back that they had met with all the families within a five mile radius of the base and all parties had pledged their cooperation. Threats had not been needed, but the substantial amounts of money on offer had easily sealed the deal. They had secured the provision of basic foodstuffs and would receive regular deliveries of staple foods. The assistants were now holed up in a large barn about three miles east of the base waiting for the convoy to arrive.
Ashiq was pleased how his simple plan was working and was looking forward to the praise of his bosses for his skill and determination. His deputy back in Tehran seemed to be running the arms shipments show satisfactorily which to Ashiq was both a blessing and a pain. He’d really wanted the guy to screw up a little so that he would still be considered the kingpin.
Anyway he was confident that once this air base job was complete he could return to Tehran and his previous job with yet another gold star to his credit.
Later that evening it was dark enough particularly as the cloud cover had arrived as forecast. The convoy of five vehicles, mostly small trucks, made their way towards the base but Ashiq made them travel at least a mile apart so as to arouse little or no suspicion. Once they had met up with the advance party Ashiq took over the van and drove to the airfield using the approach road to the north east. He drove without lights for the last mile or so not quite sure what technology could still be spying on him. As he got closer to the base he saw and headed for the large hangar. It was huge and had obviously been used to hold large military transport planes. The convoy would have no trouble using it as cover.
He called his lead driver and asked him to get the convoy moving one truck at a time. He wanted the electricians and their generator first, followed by the cooks and their gear, with the rest in no particular order. It was important that they get lights and cooking facilities set up as quickly as possible. By a little after midnight all the trucks and personnel were cocooned in the large hangar with the roof repairers and some additional labour patching up any sizeable holes or gaps. Within a couple of hours the hangar was light tight and Ashiq felt a sigh of relief. The cooks set up a simple cooking range fired by Calor gas and before too long the party had all eaten and were preparing to sleep for what remained of the night. Ashiq had determined that because it was not safe to do much work during daylight hours especially if the sky was clear, he would have the men rest during the day and get them to work at night. He could use some of the daytime to go through project plans and set the teams of workers onto separate tasks.
What he needed to do, however, was to determine the extent of the job that they were required to do. Power was obviously important and he’d been told that there was living accommodation underneath one of the smaller hangars nearby. That needed to be made ready for the crew that would operate and maintain the military transport plane he’d been told about. It would also accommodate the people who would organise the arms shipments into Africa. One very important task was to install a Beacon at the far end of the runway. He was told that this was required to allow the plane to land in all weather conditions.
Before retiring for the rest of the night, Ashiq, accompanied on foot by one of his most trusted men, took small torches and surveyed the airbase buildings of which there were several. Fortunately they were all in a strip covering a few hundred yards. The Control Tower was a couple of hundred yards further away. He’d been told not to worry about that building. Specialists would be arriving after his task was finished and they would be responsible for getting the Control Tower operational.
All the buildings they looked at were open with no locks or chains anywhere. Many of them smelt awful and Ashiq realised that he now had another task to be added to the steadily growing list.
After they’d looked at the buildings they ventured out along the taxiing paths to the single main runway. These had been laid in concrete sections and were in reasonable condition. Lots of weeds grew in the gaps between the sections but these would not be a problem. They were not going to trip up a large military transport plane.
They continued to the main runway which again was formed in concrete sections albeit larger ones than they’d seen earlier. There were even more weeds between these section gaps and quite a few areas where the concrete had crumbled or cracked open. As the runway was well over a mile long they would not be able to repair all the defects but as Ashiq had been told it was only important to ensure that the centre portion of the runway was in reasonably good condition. As it was about sixty yards wide, they would need to concentrate on the middle thirty to forty yards. It was still going to be a big task and they would definitely need more cement and aggregate than they’d brought with them. He hadn’t been told how big the plane would be just that it was a very large military transport jet. He thought it might be the size of big Russian transport jet that he’d seen some time ago in Afghanistan and tried to imagine the room it would require.
With their survey of the exterior done they retired for the remainder of the night using sleeping bags on top of some sacks over the cold concrete floor of the hangar.
Hopefully their accommodation would improve by the time they went to sleep again. Their first project meeting would be at noon and he would need to make contact with his boss to update him on their arrival and progress. Whatever additional supplies they needed would be arranged following that session. For now Ashiq was satisfied.
Meanwhile a small military team was being put together to control operations at the base. They would arrive to take over the base in about a week or so but not until Abdul Ashiq had completed his tasks and was ready to leave. His boss was organising something of a surprise party for Ashiq and his team as a thank you for all their hard work.
Chapter 19
Extremadura, Spain, late Spring 2012
Team Headquarters
Jean McKenzie slid into the kitchen at the Finca unannounced, quietly and with poise, wearing the same loose and unflattering pseudo military clothing as ever. She too had taken all the right precautions and had studied the Finca’s layout from a small hill nearly half a mile away before making her way down.
‘Is it just Marcel we’re waiting for?’ she said almost casuall
y as she took a bottle of San Miguel from the fridge and removed the crown top with a sharp tap on the sink edge. After she’d taken a long drink she rolled the chilled bottle across her forehead smiling at the coolness.
‘Twenty minutes or so’ said Steve as he gestured for another beer. Jean passed him a bottle having opened it in the same nonchalant manner.
They chatted about the weather, the world economy and the price of fish for the next half hour waiting for Marcel to show. Marcel entered in true Gallic fashion carrying a couple of bags with French style bread poking out of the top and hopefully tonight’s dinner underneath.
The four of them sat around the big, solid and very old oak kitchen table and Jean fired up her laptop and checked her secure connection.
‘What’s on the list then Jean?’ said Steve.
‘A job in Kabul, Afghanistan sounds the most important for now’ she said, important meaning better paid. She went on. ‘It looks like the president and the CIA want to keep very clear of this one. The usual ‘no knowledge at all’ is better than even a little.’
‘How much?’ said Steve.
‘Two million dollars’ replied Jean.
Steve pursed his lips and gave a low whistle ‘It sounds like they’re a bit keen on this one. They have some very special people in their anti-Terrorism arm and they don’t want to use them. Who don’t they like?’
‘They’re sure that one of President Maahir Kermani’s aides has been off the reservation and getting pally with some major undesirables. Some of the United States and the United Nations’ missions have been compromised. No loss of life yet, but they fear a big body count looming and need to prevent it. We’ll know specifically who it is soon enough. They’re working on it now’
‘Anybody got any comments?’ said Steve. Not a word. ‘We’ll take it then?’ Jean nodded and made the contact.
The first million was already in their Swiss numbered account. They would have to wait a while for the precise target. That little detail was being sorted right now.
Forty-eight hours later, Dean Walker, Special Ops Director at the CIA in Langley took the call on a secure line.
‘We have confirmed the precise identity. It is Assim Karuna and he is one of President Maahir Kermani's aides.’ ‘Thanks’, said Dean and closed the connection.
The door to his office opened and a voice said ‘They’re ready.’
The operation details would be waiting for Steve’s team at the café Barcelona just off the main Plaza Mayor square in Madrid at three o’clock the following afternoon. Jean and Marcel would go and be back later that evening. They would then have twenty-four hours to create a detailed plan and confirm their readiness.
Jean and Marcel left in the ‘company’ Seat Leon the following morning for the drive to Madrid just less than two hundred miles away. The Café Barcelona was situated on the south east corner of the Plaza Mayor and was frequented by Spanish office workers and tourists alike. It was busy all the time. They arrived about fifteen minutes before the agreed time but entered the café separately. Marcel took a chair across the table from a Moorish looking Spaniard who was reading a copy of El Pais and sipping at his espresso coffee.
An old black briefcase was on the floor under the table. The Spaniard nudged it forward with his foot until it touched Marcel’s leg. Marcel then called for ‘Café con Leche’ for two and reached for a cigarette. A passing waitress told him that smoking was no longer permitted. Marcel scowled and shrugged and waited for Jean to appear. She entered the café just as the coffee was served. The Spaniard looked at her momentarily as if to confirm he knew the face. He then finished his coffee, folded his newspaper and left the café with the briefcase still under the table.
Jean sat down and started on her coffee, and spoke in husband and wife terms to Marcel in French. No big deal, lots of French tourists and business people in Madrid.
Marcel looked at his watch and signalled five fingers to Jean. She nodded and made a very slight hand movement indicating that Marcel should look behind him when he got the chance. Marcel picked up his spoon to stir the coffee and dropped it on the floor where it bounced behind his chair. He exclaimed and rose from his seat to retrieve it hoping the waitresses were not attentive enough to do it for him.
As he turned around to find the spoon he noticed a young Arab looking man, maybe twenty-five or six years old, trying not to look at him. They were being tailed or they were expected. God knows how. Marcel retrieved the spoon and sat down again nodding surreptitiously to Jean. After a minute she finished her coffee, kissed Marcel on the cheek and exited the café.
Marcel picked up the briefcase and left about two minutes after Jean having paid their bill and leaving the normal tip. No point over tipping. No benefit in being remembered. He then started to walk across the square to the opposite corner. He walked a little slowly, deliberately. He needed the Arab to follow him but was convinced he would be anyway.
The square was busy and he had to constantly dodge the moon-struck lovers in arms who daydreamed their way across it. He wore his clear lens glasses. They had miniature speakers at the end of each arm. After a moment Jean’s voice came through very quietly but totally distinct. ‘He’s five or six yards behind you and gaining slowly, he’s casually looking around for me or the police or both. Head him into the alley about sixty yards slightly left of ahead.’
Marcel just looked up into the air and Jean knew he’d understood. By the time Marcel had reached the entrance to the darkened alley, the sun having now passed further to the west and blocked off its natural light source, the Arab was less than ten feet behind him and was reaching under his jacket for maybe a gun or knife. Marcel strode out at this point forcing the Arab to move more quickly into the alley than he might have liked and therefore losing his focus. Using a tiny mirror angled back along the alley, Jean could see Marcel with the Arab closing on him. Ten seconds and they’d be passed her hidden position.
She prepared to strike. She was behind a slightly closed door into an old building recessed by a couple of feet. There was no-one else about. As the Arab passed the doorway she silently slipped out behind him and plunged her serrated ceramic knife deep into the side of his neck and right into the Carotid Artery. The spurting blood hit the side of the alleyway making bizarre patterns as it drained towards the cobbled floor. In two or three seconds he had slid to the floor nearly dead already. Less than a minute longer and he would be. Jean retrieved her knife while Marcel checked the Arab’s pockets. There was only a stiletto knife, no cards, no phone, only a handful of euros. No labels in his clothes. He was an assassin who had made the fatal mistake of underestimating a woman.
Marcel and Jean walked on at a pace, arm in arm, and looped back towards their car park. They needed to get out of the centre of Madrid before the Police arrived. A few seconds later a piercing scream echoed down the alley as some poor unfortunate had stumbled on the Arab’s body.
They were out of Madrid’s centre in twenty minutes and stopped at a public phone box. Jean spoke casually to Steve about their shopping trip and how she’d broken a bottle of red wine. Marcel had got some new shirts and they’d met some nice people at lunch and they’d be back about eight o clock. That told Steve enough. Jean and Marcel then sped back to the Finca.
Later on at the Finca, Steve’s coded mobile pulsed in his pocket. He pulled it out and hit the answer button. ‘Okay to go’ said the voice, and just a name. Steve grinned; it was good to be back at work.
The Madrid hit squad had returned by now and with Jackson and Steve they all gathered around the huge oak dining table for an update.
Steve had already told Jackson of the happenings in Madrid earlier that day, and he had subsequently emailed a situation report to his contact at Langley. A reply confirmed the deaths of two men earlier that day, the first with a knife wound to the neck, and the other, later in the afternoon was an older person who had been found dead in an office in the commercial quarter having had a double tap to the heart and o
ne between the eyes for good measure. The description was that of the Spaniard in the café. A professional hit. There was a mole, no doubt, or maybe just an unfortunate leak. They would find out. No, the CIA would find out, but now it was back to the business in hand. They couldn’t let anything get in the way of this mission.
Jean fair glowed as she explained exactly what had happened. Marcel handed the papers from the briefcase over to Steve who spread them out over the table. There were several passports, a fair chunk of money in several denominations, and several sets of airline tickets. They had the layout of the government buildings in Kabul, plus maps of the area, plans of Maahir Kermani’s three aide’s homes and other general information about them including known contacts and places frequented. They only needed one now as Steve told them about Assim Karuna.
They needed to run through their plans one more time and then they would be off. All had their individual parts to play but they would all get there separately, some to Kabul itself, others somewhere else close by. No need for a big party on this one.
It would be a good three days before they were all in position. You didn’t go to Bandit Country without being very, very sure.