by Trevor Scott
“But—”
“You wonder how the Americans will know it was us?”
Baskale already knew the American agent had called him by name. “But how will they know it was Kurds who did this?”
Carzani tapped the side of the fax phone. “I called in responsibility. Not from here. Not from this phone. But I sent a fax directly to the vice president. E-mail too. I wanted to be sure they got it.” He laughed out loud. “When we become a country, we must come out of the darkness. Think like a civilized culture, not a bunch of goat farmers. Sure we need ties to our past, but we must forge forward. There’s so much to do. We have to decide on a capital. That won’t be easy, considering the other leaders. We’ll have to fight for Mediterranean access. Without that, we’d end up like Nepal. A beautiful country. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been to Katmandu. But inferior. We need the ocean link. Even if it’s just a thin strip of land.”
Baskale was confused. Why was this great leader telling him this?
“We have a problem,” Carzani continued. “The Americans have vowed to bring the terrorists who dropped the nerve gas on their baseball field to justice.” He was pacing now, waving his arms in the air. Settling himself, he sat on the edge of a large wooden table. “They will stop at nothing, Baskale. We’ll have to give up someone...” He tried to smile, the tight lines of his dark face coming together.
Now Baskale was concerned. Had he traveled all this way only to have his own people turn him away? Turn him over to the Americans? “What are you saying?”
Carzani noticed his uncertainty. “Relax. You have nothing to fear from all this. You will be protected. We still need great warriors more than martyrs. Now the others...” He trailed off, shrugging.
Baskale thought of the other two men. They had been told to go to London and Paris and finally meet in Brussels. That had bothered Baskale all along. Why Brussels?
Carzani changed the subject. “Look at this.” He handed Baskale the fax from the desk.
It was from a number within Iraq. Probably a number with no address. Baskale read it. When he was done, he handed it back to the Kurdish leader. “Is that how it was supposed to go?”
“Of course not.” Carzani threw the papers aside. “It means the nerve gas is more powerful than we were told. Now we’ll have to be more careful handling it.”
The Kurdish leader thought for a minute. Even though his men had died on the raid of the Iraqi air base, their masks slowly letting in the new nerve gas, the attack had been a complete success. At least a hundred men had died. Men who had bombed their villages in the past. Perhaps even some of the same men who had dropped nerve gas on Halabja. Yes, it had been a fine raid, even though the Iraqis weren’t talking about it. He would. In fact, he had, sending faxes and making calls to various news agencies. He looked around the chamber cluttered with communications equipment, and realized it was these new things that would distinguish him from all his predecessors. He who could embrace this new technology could rule from anywhere. Even Kurdistan.
Carzani wasn’t sure how much to confide in this man. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. After all, Baskale was a great Gazi, or warrior, and the most efficient and brutal Kurdish terrorist in all of Kurdistan, with the exception of perhaps one, whose loyalty was still in question. Yet, Carzani was feeling good about the events of the past week. Finally, the world leaders would have to deal with the Kurds. And there was the problem of the two British spies. His guests. What would he do with them?
Carzani smiled and put his arm around Baskale’s neck. “I have something for you. This is what is happening as we speak...”
39
ODESSA, UKRAINE
Victor Petrov, the Ukrainian Agricultural Minister, swirled around defensively with the sound of the warehouse door creaking open and closed, and then there were two sets of footsteps approaching.
Petrov was a huge man and was sweating profusely, even though the room was cold and damp. He had become a bit paranoid following all the deaths. He had called the meeting with the Israeli more to allay his concerns than for any other necessity.
The warehouse on the harbor was a dark and dingy place. Even in the afternoon. Petrov suspected rats lurked in the shadows.
Around the corner came Omri Sherut and his bodyguard, the enormous man who had bothered Petrov at each meeting. The three of them stood in near darkness with shadows across their faces. With one nod from Sherut, his bodyguard moved a few steps back, and only his silhouette was visible.
“What’s so important, Victor?” Sherut said, somewhat put off by being summoned so soon to his departure. He was packed and ready to go to the airport when he got the call.
A chill came over Petrov as he stared at the Israeli. He knew he would never be able to trust the man implicitly, but business of this nature required some risk. The benefits far outweighed the prospect of danger. “I’m worried about our deal. The American come by my office today.”
Sherut looked surprised. “Jake Adams?”
“Yes. Yes. He said that Bio-Tech was still willing to work a deal in the Ukraine. I don’t understand. I thought you said there would be no problem?”
Now Sherut’s expression turned to a rare true smile. “Adams was bluffing. He has no power to do anything. He was merely working security for the company.”
Petrov tried to breathe easier. “That’s what I thought.”
●
Crouching back behind a large wall of crates, Quinn Armstrong listened carefully to the two men. From his vantage point he couldn’t make out the faces of the men any more, since they had slipped out of the light somewhat. He had been watching Petrov, followed him to the warehouse, and was certain that Jake Adams had been right about the man. Somehow Petrov was involved with the death of the two American businessmen. How that related to Tvchenko’s death, and Petra’s, still remained a mystery.
●
In a moment there was a flash of movement near the corner of the room, back in the darkest recesses of the warehouse.
“I was wondering if you would show,” Sherut said, looking off into what seemed like nowhere.
“We still have some unfinished business,” the man said. “I didn’t want you leaving without remembering that.”
Petrov became more uneasy with this man here. “Is it true that Adams was bluffing?”
The man shuffled his feet against the dirty cement floor. “Adams is a good liar. Listen to what Sherut tells you.”
So they were unified in this, Petrov thought. They had both confirmed this individually to him, but he had not been sure. Until now.
The man lit a cigarette and drew in a deep breath, bringing an orange glow to his face.
Sherut laughed. “Is Adams gone yet?”
Letting out a puff of smoke, the man said, “He will be. He’s on his way to Kurdistan.”
“He thinks he’s so smart,” Sherut said. “I guess time will tell for sure. I assume he had no problem rushing to the aide of his friend. How noble. He should get a medal of some sort.”
The man in the shadows seemed to shuffle nervously. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing. It’s a pity, really. Some people have this strange sense of duty, without regard for their own safety. It’s ludicrous. I think he’s a bit touched in the head, myself. But you can’t misjudge his dedication, however misguided.”
“I won’t underestimate the man,” Sherut said. “I know what he’s capable of. But this time his luck has run out. He’s in the middle of something far bigger than even he can get himself out of. I’m quite certain of that.” Sherut laughed boisterously.
●
Quinn waited for a half hour after the four men had departed before he budged a muscle. He was in shock. He hadn’t actually seen the man through the darkness, but he didn’t need to. The voice had been enough. Now he wasn’t sure how to react. Jake Adams was in trouble and he was the only one who could tell him that. Had Jake already left for Turkey?
40
ISTANBUL, TURKE
Y
Jake was lost in the sounds and chaos of the Istanbul International Airport. He was sitting in one of those cheap vinyl chairs that stick to your pants on a hot day as you try to get up. It was one of those hot days and the terminal air conditioning wasn’t doing the job. Hoards of people swept by as they deplaned. He had a half hour left of a two-hour layover on his flight from Odessa to Adana. He couldn’t wait to see the airplane they’d use for that final flight. It seemed that not many people were traveling to Adana on that day.
It was late Friday afternoon. Jake had spent the layover wondering what had happened to Helena. He had given her clear instructions to go to Yalta, check into the Summit Hotel, and wait there for him to pick her up in four days. If everything went as he wanted, he’d be in Yalta on Sunday as promised. But he had called the Summit Hotel, and no one matching Helena’s description had checked in. Had she gotten to Yalta safely? His mind was flipping back and forth on what could have happened to her. He had been certain nobody had followed him to Nikolaev, where he put her on the train to Yalta.
Jake looked up from gazing at a magazine and saw a woman down the corridor stroll through the crowd. Standing up quickly for a better look, he lost her in the distant crowd. Yet he was certain it was Chavva. It wouldn’t have been that much of a coincidence, since they had first met in Istanbul. But it was curious, since he thought she had left Odessa the day before on her way back to Tel Aviv. He smiled thinking of his encounter with her, as he turned to sit down.
Standing just behind him was Sherut, Chavva’s boss. He had that smirk on his face, like he was superior and he thought everyone should know it. They stared for an uncomfortable moment.
Finally Jake said, “I thought you went back to Tel Aviv?”
Sherut had his hands in the pockets of a long overcoat that seemed far too warm, considering the temperature. “I was delayed in Odessa, I’m afraid. Business. And you? What brings you to Turkey?”
Jake thought for a moment. He didn’t have to tell this man shit, but what the hell. “An old friend of mine. I used to work in Turkey. I thought I’d look him up before heading back to the States.” That was really the truth. He was looking for Sinclair Tucker.
Sherut smiled. “I’m just on a layover myself.” He pointed to a large flight schedule on the wall. It showed a flight leaving for Tel Aviv in one hour.
“Is Chavva traveling with you?”
He raised his brows, as if Jake had caught him at something. “I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. I thought she worked for you. So naturally you’d be traveling together.”
He shook his head and then turned and nodded toward a man sitting across the waiting area. It was the large bodyguard dressed in nice slacks with a black leather coat. He looked like the driver Jake had seen pulling up during his late-night visit with Sherut at the Odessa train station. He was reading a newspaper, but keeping an eye trained in their direction. “Just my associate. Chavva left yesterday, I believe.”
There was no arguing. Jake was tired, but sure he had seen her crossing the corridor. It didn’t matter one way or the other, really. Jake said goodbye to Sherut and decided to head out and walk until his flight. He hated being cooped up on planes. He went in the direction he thought he had seen Chavva. Nothing. Continuing on, he stopped at a magazine stand and looked behind him. Nobody was following him.
Jake rubbed his left arm against his chest, where his 9mm normally hung. He had left it in the hotel safe, but wasn’t sure why. Tully had told him he’d get plenty of firepower once he reached Incirlik. He hoped so, because he felt somewhat naked without it.
He checked his watch. Time to head to the plane.
41
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
The two Agency officers nervously awaited coordinated backup at the row house apartments four blocks from the north train station. Neither man was familiar with Brussels. They had simply followed their target there on a flight from Rome, taken the train from the National Airport, and walked the four blocks. Only minutes ago the man entered the building, and then the junior officer, Max Noble, had hurried back to a phone, called in their position, and found out the horrible truth. Max was back now, had just given the news to his boss, Allen Gregory, and they stood back in the shadows, waiting for the place to explode with Agency and Belgian officers.
Gregory was a tall man. Blond hair, thinning on top, but never visible since he was rarely without his leather seaman’s hat.
Max was the opposite. Short, stocky, with a full head of dark hair that was a touch longer than his boss liked to admit. But Max just assumed Gregory was jealous.
The casual observer seeing them in the park together like that, would think nothing of them. They were dressed in casual clothes, nothing obtrusive. Nice slacks. Neutral dress shirts without ties. And waist-length jackets that were a bit baggy on each, making it easy to conceal their 9mm automatics.
Max hated to wait. Gregory said he would gain patience with age. At thirty-five, Gregory was nine years older than Max. Perhaps a lifetime in this business.
Gregory was an assistant to the Berlin station chief. Had been since it was the old CIA. Two years. He thought back about the last twenty-four hours. How they had been watching the Kurd they suspected killed Gerhard Kreuzberg, the former foreign minister killed by a tiny Ricin pellet. The man had worked sporadically in Berlin under a number of different names. The most recent one, Hosap. When the man suddenly took off by train, the Agency officers were right on his tail. Had they spooked him? Gregory didn’t think so. They had stopped in Munich briefly, long enough to call in their position to Berlin, and then continued on with a night train to Rome.
That’s when things turned strange. Hosap went directly from the train station to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Brussels under a different name. Baskale. Just before the flight, Gregory had called in again and reported what he knew. He was told to stick with their man. They were sure he was up to no good.
And there they were. The place hinting toward darkness from heavy clouds. A city neither had been to more than once, and that was for a brief meeting a year ago. When Max had returned from calling in, he was clearly disturbed. Something wasn’t right with the tone of the local Agency officers. He was sure of it. They were to not proceed without them. That was an order. An order. Max hadn’t heard someone say that since he was a marine lieutenant about to blow the shit out of an Iraqi bunker in Kuwait. He had known the men inside were simply pawns not willing to give them much of a fight. But he had followed orders like a good marine does, killing everyone inside. Thirty-five men huddled inside, emaciated from weeks without supplies. Max had felt like such an asshole that day. Orders. Follow them blindly. He looked up at the building and wondered if this was another one of those situations.
After twenty minutes of waiting, finally a car pulled up a few blocks away and a man stepped out, lit a cigarette, and proceeded down the sidewalk toward them. That was the signal.
Another car pulled up from the other direction, a block away. It looked like two or three men in that one.
Max and Gregory moved toward the man with the cigarette. All three met at the corner under a street lamp that wouldn’t turn on for hours. It was late afternoon, but the sidewalks were nearly empty. Down a block and a half was a woman with a baby stroller heading toward a park. Farther down, an old man waited at a corner bus stop.
The man with the cigarette had broad shoulders and was somewhere in height between the other two. Perhaps six feet. He wore a long coat that was open in front. Gregory knew he must have had a little extra firepower inside.
“Which one of you did I talk with?” the man asked.
“Me,” Max said.
“Great. I called Berlin and told them about our situation. We’ve got the place covered. Our Belgian friends are moving in behind the building as we speak. They agree this is ours. What I couldn’t say over the phone is that we got an anonymous tip about two men at this location. Did you
hear about Houston?”
They both nodded.
“The two inside were supposedly involved.”
Max looked confused.
“We only followed one here,” Gregory said.
“I know. It doesn’t mean there aren’t more inside. Our orders from Langley are to try to take these two alive. Or three. You told Berlin the man you were following flew under the name Baskale?”
“That’s right.”
“Well that’s the name of the pilot who dropped the nerve gas on the Astrodome.”
Gregory thought about that. It didn’t sound right. Something was screwed up with the timing, but there was no time to argue the point. “So how in the hell should we proceed. For all we know, these guys could have nerve gas in there.”
Max shuddered with the thought. He had spent far too many hours in chemical warfare suits, until his skin had turned black from all the charcoal, to even think about nerve gas. Give him lead any day. Bullets. That’s how to kill someone. Blow a hole in them.
The Brussels officer shrugged. “We don’t have time to round up chem gear. Let’s go. You can’t live forever.”
The three of them headed off toward the apartment house. As they did, two other men got out of the car behind them, and three from the car ahead. There was no way to hide their approach. They had to hope no one was looking outside. Once they got inside, Belgian police would show up outside, blocking any exit.
Inside, the men quietly made their way to the second floor and took up positions. Everyone knew the drill. Surprise was the key.
The Brussels man pulled a Mac 10 automatic from inside his coat and nodded his head to Max and Gregory, who were straddling him on each side of the door.
With one quick motion, the Brussels officer kicked in the door, screamed out orders in French, flying into the room.
Two men inside scurried for weapons lying on a coffee table.
Brussels sprayed a blast of bullets against a wall, and the men froze.