Still, the driver eyed him with suspicion. ‘How old are you? Early thirties? I don’t see many older Afghans make this trip all the way anymore – not after word got out at how the Iranian border guards treat us.’ And it was true that this exit for the Afghans had ceased to be viable unless safe passage – meaning advance notice to the guards at the border post along with a decent bribe – had been arranged. Most Afghans had neither the money nor the contacts to make what used to be a straightforward journey.
‘Well, I work for a family that has connections in the Iranian government. I shouldn’t think I will find too much trouble in Iran, God willing. I keep myself to myself and I will answer any questions that are asked of me.’
‘I see. Well, we’d best get going if we are to make the border post before it shuts. I hope the Iranians receive you as warmly as you seem to think they will.’ The driver snorted and wiped his fat nose with the back of his hand. ‘Things have changed you know.’ He lit another cigarette, breathing it in deeply.
‘I’ll take my chances.’ Faisal hitched up his pants and climbed the Coaster’s stairs, resuming his seat in the stench. He stretched out and placed his feet on the Adidas sports bag containing his travel documents and a change of clothes. His bag also contained a letter from the Fayaz family. The head of the family was Ayatollah Mohammed Ishaq Fayaz, the most powerful voice in the Shia minority in Afghanistan promising unity and inclusion across both sects. The letter, only a few lines in total, told of Faisal’s intention to pay a cultural visit to the Imam Reza shrine in Mashhad.
Faisal amused himself for the rest of the journey by listening to the students discuss what they thought Iran was going to be like. They had no idea of the experience that Faisal had just organised for them.
8
ABETONE, ITALY
The door to Steph Baumer’s office flew open.
‘Ma’am, we have a problem – or, rather, you do,’ declared Fiona Prince as she strode into the softly lit office on the top floor of the mountain hideaway. People referred to Fiona behind her back as Princess Fiona, a reference to the troll princess in Shrek. She was in her late thirties and, mainly due to her personality – or lack thereof – was unlikely to advance further than her position as an intelligence analyst for the CIA. Steph tolerated her abrasive nature because she was handy to have around and excelled at menial tasks, but Steph also kept her firmly in her place.
‘I told you not to disturb me. This better be important, Fiona.’ Steph was poring over a file she had recently received from MI6 and was reviewing notes on Milko Orelik and his recent movements through Europe. She looked up over her desk and out the huge window to the panoramic view of the snowy Italian mountains. She watched Fiona approach in the reflection.
‘It’s the project you’re working on in Afghanistan. It’s Faisal Khan, ma’am.’
Steph turned her chair slowly and eyed Fiona, who looked particularly frumpy in her tartan skirt and long-sleeved blouse. Combat pants and t-shirt, ready for anything, was Steph’s mantra.
‘What about Faisal Khan?’ Steph tapped her finger on the desk impatiently. ‘Well, come on – get to it.’
‘They know he’s on the move. I just saw some traffic come over the RIPCADMAT requesting a Reaper. They’re looking at hitting a bus he’s on with a missile – like, now!’
‘You’ve got to be joking! Who? Who is looking to do that?’ Steph stood up and placed her hands on her hips. ‘This will fuck everything!’
Fiona took a deep breath and stepped back from Steph. ‘It’s the Special Operations Joint Task Force in Kabul. The request came from Brigadier Mark Smyth. He’s looking to approve the strike on Khan – they’re only waiting for a positive ID. If he uses his phone again they’re going to locate him and launch.’
‘Right, well, of course they are.’ Steph brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and ran it back into her tight ponytail. ‘What on earth is a RIPCADMAT anyway?’ she asked, as she turned back to the desk and gathered all her files into a single pile.
‘It’s the new software system for joint fire assets that was installed in the Joint Operations Room. It’s the Recon, Intelligence, Planning, Combined Arms Directory for Missions and Training. It was installed last month and I can now monitor assets all over the world. I briefed you on it last month. It’s awesome.’
‘I’m the bloody Italian station chief, Fiona – do you think I give a crap about that shit?!’
‘Assistant to the chief…’ Fiona trailed off, looking at the floor.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
‘No, didn’t think so. Anyway, how do they even know where he is?’
‘He made a series of phone calls two days ago and again today. It appears that he was excited to let everyone know he was out of gaol. Did you know he had a teenage son?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’ Steph focused on some dirt under one of her fingernails and picked at it with her other hand.
‘Well, none of us did. His son’s name is Mohammed Al Faisal, and Faisal Khan rang his number. The conversation was interesting. It turns out his son is being held against his will. Khan was given permission to talk to him, told him that everything was going to be okay and he mentioned that God had given him and his son a mission. The call was transcribed in the report attached to Smyth’s request. Plus, the National Security Agency intercepted a call between Faisal Khan and our friend the facilitator in Egypt and then a call to one of the known narcotic targets on the Drug Enforcement Agency’s hit list. The NSA matched his voice from past records and they realised he was one of the escaped prisoners from the Sarposa prison break in Kandahar, as well as a registered medium-value target. They alerted ISAF SOF and they passed the information to the Special Operations Joint Task Force HQ. Now they’re trying to locate him.’
Steph slammed her hand on the desk. ‘Goddamn it. I told those retards to give him a smart phone with instructions not to turn it on until he was in Turkey. We have to make sure they don’t get a shot at him.’
‘Ma’am, we’re eight thousand kilometres away. How can we stop them?’
‘Shit, I don’t know, but we better think of something, and fast.’
Steph turned her gaze to the view again. Finally, she asked, ‘This RIPCAD thingy – does it have footage too?’
‘Of course; it’s an interactive platform. We can access it, see everything, we could even request a strike through it if we wanted to and our request met the criteria.’
Steph opened the bottom drawer of her desk and grabbed an old Nokia. She switched it on to make sure it was charged.
‘Right, let’s go.’ Steph moved out the door, eyes fixed on the phone as she dialled a number.
‘Mohammed Al Bahari, is that you?…Hello, yes, it’s been a long time, my friend. So, I need you to do me a favour, right now…Yes, it’s extremely important – I’ll pay you triple the normal fee.’
There was silence at the other end of the line except for the sound of a car’s engine and then that too fell silent.
‘I’m listening,’ came the reply.
‘Can you locate Jawid Fartouk for me? I need to talk to him urgently.’
‘Ten times.’
‘What?’ said Steph.
‘I want ten times the normal amount, then I’ll do it.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Mohammed, I don’t have access to that sort of money.’
‘Fine, I’ll take three times the normal amount.’
Steph heard him yawn lazily and felt a flare of anger. He had pissed her off now, and she decided to change the game they were playing.
He spoke again. ‘If you had agreed to ten I would have been worried anyway. Give me half an hour – I’m not that far from there now.’
‘Thank you, Mohammed.’ She heard the car start again as he hung up the phone. Steph stuffed the handset back in her pocket and shouldered open the door to the operations room. On one side of the room there were four small cubicles, each with a
computer for the staff to write their reports. In the centre of the room was a long desk covered with reports and files. On the far wall were three giant maps – two of Italy and one of Croatia – as well as a smaller map of Afghanistan. One of Steph’s staff, at Fiona’s instigation, was already hooking up a projector to the main computer so they could all watch the Reaper footage.
‘So what’s the plan, ma’am?’ asked Fiona.
‘Gather around, everyone – we have about thirty minutes to stop this from becoming a really crappy day!’ Steph turned to Fiona. ‘You just get me that Reaper feed and I’ll do the rest.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
...
‘Sir, the MQ-9 Reaper has plenty of time left on station but it has only one hellfire left after it supported a para regiment patrol today in Helmand Province.’
Jim Rafter, the Joint Task Force operations officer, replaced the handset on the secret telephone located on the far side of the brigadier’s private office. He turned to face his commander, who was standing behind his stately desk. Although located in Kabul, the office of the Special Operations Joint Task Force commander was spacious and opulent, as you would expect for someone of such high rank. It was Brigadier Mark Smyth’s preferred place from which to run these types of operations. He found the operations room too loud, not allowing him time to sit quietly and process important information. Standing there behind his desk, at six feet tall and dressed in immaculate MultiCams, he looked every bit the thirty-year military veteran. His salt and pepper grey hair softened his looks slightly, but this was offset by his bright blue eyes, and the sharp gaze that often made people uncomfortable.
‘Thanks, Jim.’ Smyth turned to his intelligence officer. ‘Karen, do you have the positive ID yet? Is this definitely our guy?’
‘Not yet, sir, he’s only just turned the phone back on. Once he makes a call, and if he speaks clearly enough, we should be able to get positive ID in a matter of seconds.’
‘And you think it’s this bus that we are watching on the screen now?’
‘Most probably, sir. The Reaper that’s on station has searched the length of the highway. There were twenty buses in total but this one is about the correct distance away from the point where we first intercepted his transmission. They started tracking it just after its last stop. Simple matter of time past a point based on average speed and requisite rest breaks.’
Smyth smiled at her. ‘Great work, Karen.’
‘Thank you, sir. Do you mind if I help myself to a coffee? It’s been a long couple of hours.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, you know where it is.’ Brigadier Smyth folded his arms as he turned back to watch the screen.
Karen moved to the Nespresso machine located in the small alcove off to the side of the room. ‘Do you want one, boss?’
‘No, thanks.’ Smyth kept his focus on the screen. A few cars overtook the bus as it exited another urban area and started to make its way further out of Kandahar proper. ‘Tell me, Jim, collateral damage – what’s the story?’
‘Well, it’s a twenty-two-seat bus, sir, so there could be two or twenty-two or even fifty aboard; you know how they jam into these vehicles. We could stay on station for a few hours to get ID and follow him until we have him by himself, or we could just smash him and whoever he is with and put it down to bad luck for them.’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t suggest that, Jim.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jim looked down at his feet and then up to the screen.
‘But when the time comes,’ Smyth added with a wry smile, ‘there’s nothing off the table.’
Karen’s voice chimed in from the alcove, ‘Sir, the Reaper pilot can update us on how many are on the bus; they watched it during its last stop and would have recorded the footage.’ She walked in with two cups of coffee and handed one to Jim. He took it and she smiled at him, raising her eyebrows as she did. ‘I’ll establish communications with them now, boss. Won’t be long.’
She moved across to the stack of radios by the secret phone and scanned the laminated card on the wall for the correct frequency. She pushed the digital keypad on the Harris radio and the sound of the Reaper controller in Kandahar came through the handset.
‘I didn’t think of that,’ Jim said to the Brigadier under his breath. ‘Sorry, sir.’
The brigadier waved away the apology, his eyes still on the bus, playing over in his mind how to deal with the problem.
Karen spoke up. ‘They’re pretty sure that’s the bus, sir. They still don’t have positive ID but the Reaper picked up the phone signal itself. Also, there are seven people on board including the driver.’
‘Right! Okay, tell me again, Karen: how important is this guy, in the grand scheme of things?’
‘He’s a medium-value target, boss.’ Karen listened to some information from the pilot and then continued. ‘The Reaper is asking for your authorisation codes – they’re ready to launch.’
‘But how does he rank, where is he in the fight, what effect will this have, if any?’ Smyth started to pace the length of the room.
‘Sir, if you’re going to do this you have to do it soon, they’re approaching another village area.’ Jim had moved closer to the screen and was now cross-referencing the video feed with a map in his hand.
‘He’s important enough to eradicate, boss,’ said Karen.
‘Eradicate? What about the other six, Karen? Is their eradication going to save the lives of others?’ Smyth stopped walking and watched as the bus pulled over again.
‘I can’t answer that, boss. How would I know?’
‘I need some more information, Karen,’ Smyth told her.
‘Perfect chance now, boss,’ Jim said. ‘No other cars, static target and off the road to boot. Launch it, I’d say.’
The brigadier ignored him.
‘Karen, give me something.’
‘Sir, he’s on the Joint Prioritized Effects List, and we are authorised to capture or kill people on the list – that’s why we have it.’
‘Do it, boss! I think the bus is going to move again!’ Jim was now standing a foot from the screen and almost bursting with excitement.
‘Jesus, Jim, calm down. Karen, there are other people on that bus; I need to know where he is on the list.’
‘They might be all part of his group, boss,’ said Jim.
Smyth shot him a glare.
‘He’s on the bottom end of the list, sir,’ Karen said.
‘How many names are on the list, Karen?’ asked Smyth, knowing the answer only too well.
‘Around two thousand two hundred, sir – but it should be remembered that he was much higher at one point, before he was in prison. He has links to the Pakistani intelligence service, al-Qaeda, the Taliban and others. Sir, he’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘I see.’ Smyth looked at the screen and sighed. ‘Very well.’
Karen was interrupted by her mobile ringing in her pocket. ‘I’d better take this, sir – it should be the intelligence cell calling with an update.’
Jim said urgently, ‘Sir, the Reaper has it locked now – they’re ready to release on your command.’
Smyth straightened up and walked over to the radio stack.
‘Alright, I’m ready. Let’s do this. Pass me the handset, Karen.’
Karen ended the call she was on and looked up at her commander, the colour gone from her face. ‘Sir, you’re not going to fucking believe this!’ she said.
‘What is it, Karen?’ Smyth hadn’t heard her swear before.
‘You’re never going to guess who just popped up on our radar…’
...
‘Mohammed Al Bahari, thanks for calling me back.’ Steph pointed at Fiona, who in turn pointed to one of the other intelligence staff. The woman quickly began to type on her desktop and an automated message came instantly back from the NSA.
‘Hi, Steph, I have Jawid, he’s here with me now. I’ll hand him over to you.’
Steph could hear them talking; she k
new that Mohammed would have promised Jawid one-third of the money. Taliban at this level were not easily deceived; at least, not until one of their own offered them a large amount of cash. Steph had made Mohammed rich over the years, and now it was his turn to pay back the debt, and pay he would.
‘Yes?’ said Jawid quietly.
Steph handed the phone to Qasim Darya, her Afghan translator.
‘This is Qasim, I work for a friend of Mohammed Al Bahari. Are you Jawid Fartouk?’
‘Yes, it is me. What can I do for you?’
‘I need some information about a family in Arghandab,’ Qasim said. ‘Perhaps you know them?’
Steph nodded to Karen, who patched the phone call back to the NSA.
‘I’m the rightful governor, I know everyone in Arghandab,’ Jawid said with authority. ‘If they are from my area, I surely know them.’ His pride at being the shadow governor for the Taliban was obvious.
Steph rolled her fingers over at Qasim, indicating for him to keep Jawid talking.
‘It’s a family who have links to the Pakistani construction company that are maintaining the road.’
‘Yes, I know this family well. What do you want of them? I can tell you now that they own half of—’
Jawid would utter no more words in this life. The hellfire punched through the roof of the car. The eight-kilogram high-explosive warhead detonated behind the driver’s seat, vaporising Mohammed Al Bahari and Jawid Fartouk instantly. The blast was so intense that if they truly had souls, they too would have been obliterated and not much use in an afterlife.
The sound that came back to Qasim made him drop the phone and the NSA message that appeared on the intelligence analyst’s computer confirmed the strike had taken place on Brigadier Mark Smyth’s orders.
‘I’d say that was effective.’ Steph smiled at Fiona, who looked back at her in disbelief. ‘Well, what did you think would happen?’ Steph looked around at her shocked staff. ‘Okay, carry on everyone – fun’s over.’
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