by Don Hoesel
Guiding a vehicle at night through the northeastern Ethiopian desert was akin to paddling a small boat over a vast lake. While the lake lacked the monstrous waves of the ocean, an occasional swell might make things difficult. In the desert, the sand ever expanded beyond the range of the jeep’s headlights, with the metaphorical far shore retreating a step ahead of the glow. But every once in a while the earth would dip below them, or a patch of scrub would manifest from the darkness, forcing them to proceed with caution. At some point, when Dabir would have his men cut the headlights, making them reliant on the GPS, they would have to slow even more.
As they progressed to the target area, Dabir mulled over the information he’d obtained. Catching Canfield in the airport had been luck, he knew. He did not congratulate himself for this success beyond accepting credit for the ambition to learn the identity of his benefactor. But having the resources and talent to put a new name to the face was an accomplishment worthy of celebration. The trick now was to learn everything he could about Alan Canfield, other than of course the man being employed by Van Camp Enterprises. Dabir smiled to think that much of his investigative work so far had been financed by Canfield’s employer.
The driver pulled Dabir’s attention to the GPS. They were two kilometers from the targets, who according to the message Standish had sent, were camped near the rift, very close to the southeastern Eritrea border. Dabir, who had spent his childhood on the other side of this border, knew the area well—enough to know that proceeding in a straight line would be foolish. Between the jeep and the research encampment lay two ravines large enough to swallow the jeep whole. The largest of these fissures stretched for almost forty kilometers north to south. Dabir and his men were approaching the encampment near the southern end of the ravine, yet the obstacle required that they make a circuit southward. Dabir thought they would come up on the research team from the southeast. With any luck they would find the men sleeping. Afterward, they would send the photos to the necessary email address and Dabir’s account would increase by a considerable factor.
—
Dabir’s face did not change expression as he studied the scene through the night-vision binoculars, though inside his stomach roiled, for this could be nothing other than his own execution narrowly avoided. They’d come in with the lights out from half a mile, then walked the final two hundred yards. He’d known they’d arrive on a rise of rock and dirt and suspected that a research team would make camp below, where the rise afforded some protection against the wind. Were they sleeping, Dabir and his men would have slipped down and finished their business quickly.
What played out, however, in the panorama of the binoculars, was a betrayal, an announcement of the end to a business partnership. At first he wondered what he might have done to warrant the abrupt change, but then he realized this situation found its impetus in the botched attack on the American military unit.
Shuul was at his elbow, tugging at the fold of Dabir’s shirt, causing the binoculars to jump, the scene to shift. Pulling them away from his face, he glared at the other man until Shuul backed off. Replacing the binoculars, Dabir continued his survey. Three trucks, perhaps a dozen men, equally split between white and black skin. A team not native to the region; the clothes on the black men were of Ugandan design. That in itself was sloppy, unless of course the clothes were a misdirection. There was no way to know.
He watched for a while longer, even as he felt the growing unease of his men behind him. After the encounter with the Americans, he leaned toward a more cautious operation, and caution required knowledge gained through patience. The men around the three trucks were alert but not tense. They did not talk, but neither did they take pains to disguise their movements. It told Dabir that these men had the confidence of superior numbers and of having their enemies’ agenda. Once more he scanned the group until he halted with the binoculars trained on a man standing by the driver’s side of a Hummer. He watched as the man reached into the truck, pulled out a bottle, and drank from it. He made no effort to hide the activity, and that, along with the quality of the rifle he held in his hands, identified him as the leader—and not a careful man.
Satisfied, Dabir moved away from the ridge, back to where his men waited. He quickly went over his options. He could leave now, disappearing into the darkness and removing what money he could from his account before Standish/Canfield made that impossible. Or he could kill these men prior to disappearing. The benefit of this choice was that it would buy him more time to secure what funds he needed. The downside was the probability that some, if not all, of his men would die in the assault—perhaps even himself.
His three associates gathered around, faces expectant. All of them were with him when they assaulted the Americans; each knew the portion of fault that was his. Yet each of them would follow Dabir over the ridge if he ordered them to.
He had a decision to make.
—
Dabir had waited two hours before initiating contact, and during that time he found himself growing to appreciate the patience of the team that waited to kill him.
The waiting, though, was over.
He’d sent two of his men down the slope toward the scrub that Dabir had chosen as their best cover. In truth, his men relied on their dark clothing and skin to reach their places without attracting the enemy’s eye. Dabir watched as each man found his spot, halfway down the hill and flanking the men who still looked for Dabir’s team to come from the west.
Dabir used the binoculars to confirm they would not be caught off guard when he began the assault. Then he waited another ten minutes before commencing the attack.
Part of the money he’d accumulated over the years had gone toward the purchase of several items whose purpose made engagements like this easier. And so when he launched the SL-2500 rocket toward one of the trucks, he took pleasure in knowing that his enemy’s bosses had financed their own demise.
The truck went up with a single concussive blast, and Dabir saw the man next to it, the one he took for the leader, tossed through the air like a child’s doll. Next, the air became filled with the reports of his men’s guns, cutting down whoever they could. Others dove behind the remaining vehicles for cover.
Dabir signaled his associate to open up with the NSV they’d dismounted from the jeep. It wasn’t until the first salvo had taken out another three men that those left standing began to return fire, and despite the fact that they’d been caught off guard, there were marksmen in their midst.
The first of the rounds struck the ridgeline where Dabir sat, likely following the now-dispersed rocket trail. They were close enough to cause him to pull back. Among experienced combatants, the element of surprise seldom granted more than a temporary advantage, and he suspected it was now spent. Nonetheless, the enemy occupied a bowl, with Dabir’s men positioned on the rim of that bowl.
He shuffled forward on his elbows, raising the rocket launcher to his shoulder. It took him but a second to acquire a target, one of the two remaining vehicles pulling away from the kill zone. He led the truck but didn’t anticipate its sudden acceleration and came close to missing it. Instead of hitting the engine as he’d planned, the missile turned the cab into an inferno.
—
Excepting the failed assault against the Americans, Dabir made it a point not to leave one of his own behind. Shuul would travel with them back to Hadar, wrapped in a blanket in the back of the jeep. His brother would collect the body, as well as the money Standish/Canfield provided for such an eventuality. Dabir would say a blessing for the dead man and then he would leave the family alone to grieve.
Dabir sat down and used a knife to cut away his shredded pant leg from the knee down. The grenade that killed Shuul had also sent shrapnel into Dabir’s leg. Not a life-threatening injury, but in the desert, even a simple cut could worsen in a short time. From the first-aid kit in his pack he pulled out alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. The process took only a few minutes. When he’d finished he stood and ma
de his way down the hill, joining the two men who stood near the remaining, relatively intact Hummer, admiring the vehicle despite the countless holes, shattered glass, and human remains.
While Dabir had been working on his injury, his men had been gathering the dead men’s weapons, money, and any identifying paper work. Dabir flipped through it all, stopping at one item. It was a passport belonging to the man Dabir suspected to have been the leader. He guessed the passport to be a fake. Still, Standish/Canfield would know.
Dabir crossed the darkened desert and stopped at the man’s body. A quick scan revealed that while his men had already taken the rifle, they’d missed the knife. Dabir knelt and removed it from its sheath and held it up to the moonlight. The blade flashed beneath it.
Despite the worsening throb in his leg, he leaned over the dead man and placed the passport on his chest. Then, using the knife as a pushpin, he slammed it first through the passport and then through the body cavity.
Standish would see; he would know. By then Dabir and the money would be gone.
He had the men gather what weapons they could carry, and then they started the walk back up the hill.
December 9, 2012, 6:13 P.M.
“Certainly not our finest hour, Alan.”
In the eight years of his drawing a paycheck from Arthur Van Camp, he could not recall ever seeing the man angry, and with fluctuating markets, changes in global dynamics, and the numerous situations that arose when managing a company employing more than twenty thousand people, ample opportunity for an extreme emotional response often presented itself.
Perhaps, though, Canfield had simply overlooked the man’s anger. For while Van Camp didn’t raise his voice, Canfield could sense the anger seething below the surface. He would have preferred shouting or insults or even the Akbal carving thrown at him rather than the disgust Van Camp exuded.
“The fortunate thing is that it’s next to impossible for anyone to trace this back to us,” Canfield offered, knowing the inadequacy of the response. What had just happened in Ethiopia had forced Van Camp to expend resources to do something he seldom did: keep something out of the news.
“We have in-house resources available for this kind of thing,” Van Camp said. “Not only did you select an outside vendor, you chose one you have ties with.” Something must have struck him as humorous, because he released a small chuckle. “You trampled all over the company Conflict of Interest policy.”
Canfield felt the corner of his lip curl. He considered a joke under these circumstances a positive sign. Even so, the proper response remained the penitent one.
“The team was otherwise engaged, sir,” Canfield said, although he knew his boss was aware of that. Hitting Hickson Petroleum had made a noticeable impact in the market—noticeable if one knew how to look at it. “Even had I considered postponing the mission until the team was available, my thought was that using them on foreign soil was a bad move. They don’t know the language or the terrain. And then there are the logistics of getting them in and out without setting off an alarm bell somewhere.” He paused, releasing a deep sigh of his own. “Matt is—was—exceptional at this sort of thing. I thought he could handle it.”
“And now you have a dead friend, as well as a former business associate who will likely disappear like smoke. I assume he’s cleaned out the account.”
Canfield nodded.
“A tactical error, Alan,” Van Camp said. “That’s not like you.”
Van Camp drew in a breath and released it slowly. When he settled back in his chair, Canfield knew a good portion of the man’s anger had dissipated. He knew how his boss operated: Van Camp looked at the entire body of work; he never made a rash decision. Simply put, Canfield bore the lion’s share of responsibility for the current state of Project: Night House. Van Camp would not overlook that.
“You’re right, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Van Camp drummed his fingers on the desk, appraising his vice-president of Business Development, who sat stoically staring back at him.
“I should hope not,” he said. “The question now is, what are we going to do about your rogue employee? Dabir, is it?”
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do,” Canfield admitted. “As it is, he has no idea who I am, who he’s been working for. All he knows is that I tried to terminate our contract. With the money we’ve paid him—and what he cleaned out of the account—it’s unlikely we’ll hear from him again. So my suggestion is to leave him be.” At Van Camp’s frown he added, “Our only other option is to start turning over rocks in Ethiopia, Djibouti, Eritrea, and who knows where else. Doing that will draw a lot more attention than if we were to just let him be.”
It was the logical choice—the only choice really—and his boss could appreciate that.
“Very well,” Van Camp said. “Let’s consider the Ethiopian operation closed. Perhaps we’ve spread ourselves too thin anyway.”
Canfield didn’t answer, but he felt the tension drain from his body.
“You look tired, Alan. Is everything alright at home?”
Canfield affected a weary smile. “Just fine, sir. I’m sure it’s just all the travel.”
“Of course it is.” Again the appraiser’s eye.
When Canfield left his boss’s office, it was with the feeling of having had a huge weight lifted. He knew, though, the temporary nature of that state. Twelve days remained for him to accomplish a great deal. If he failed, the next meeting he’d be having with Arthur Van Camp would be of an entirely different nature. And that truth spoke to the other emotion rising to the surface—one he seldom allowed himself to entertain: anger. For it was becoming increasingly clear that the endgame he’d laid out for himself was now subject to alteration.
Over the last couple of years, as he’d led Project: Night House from one milestone to another, he’d approached the endeavor as a career advancement strategy. That mind-set made it easier to get through some of the more sordid elements of the project. Now, however, he was beginning to realize that, like Dabir, and the earthquake project at Afar, and the mining operation in South Africa, and any of a dozen other initiatives that Van Camp had called a halt to, Canfield might find himself on that list as well. After all, if Night House succeeded, the man who had pulled it off would undoubtedly be the most dangerous of loose ends. Rather than consider that unpleasant thought more, he decided to go home.
He pulled into the driveway just after eleven p.m. and could see no lights on in the house. Phyllis wouldn’t have waited up for him. He stepped through the front door and set his briefcase on the hall table, then moved quietly to the kitchen. There, he turned on a light and began scrounging around in the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich. He sat at the small kitchen table, letting go the stresses of the day. In fact, so thoroughly did the list of things he had to accomplish drain from his mind that he decided to head up to bed rather than spend the next few hours in his office. Setting his plate in the sink, he switched off the light and went upstairs.
Reaching the bedroom, he saw the shape of his wife in bed. In the darkness, eased only by the moonlight spilling through the window, he thought he saw a wineglass on the nightstand. He shook his head as he started to undress. If she was drinking to help her sleep, it meant she wasn’t in a good place. He resolved to go to the office late tomorrow, to spend some time with his wife. Maybe he’d make breakfast. They hadn’t taken a walk around the neighborhood in a long time.
As he slid into bed he moved close to her and gently kissed her cheek. The action took him closer to the nightstand on her side of the bed—the one with the empty wineglass. Next to the glass lay an open pill bottle.
December 10, 2012, 9:54 A.M.
When Richards walked into the room, Brent could sense a different tone than he’d witnessed so far, even before the colonel opened his mouth. Maddy must have sensed it as well, because her face lost its smile.
“Problem, Colonel?” she asked.
Instead of answering, Richards
tossed a few stapled pages on the table between the captain and the professor. Maddy reached for it, reorienting it so she could scan the text. In only a few moments she looked up, her eyes carrying either surprise or worry—Brent couldn’t tell which.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a threat update,” the colonel answered. “We get one daily.”
Brent reached for it, assuming that if he wasn’t supposed to read it, Maddy would break his hand. He read the first few lines, essentially bullet points of various hot spots around the globe. It went on for three pages, and if the first entries were an indication of things, then the overall state of the world was much more precarious than Brent thought. He looked up at the colonel.
“Since you get this every day, I’m assuming there’s something abnormal in this one?” he asked.
“The second entry,” Maddy said, reaching across the table and tapping the one in question.
Brent read the few lines with greater care than he had the first time through. “A tribal skirmish in Tablisi?”
“It’s in a part of Afghanistan that doesn’t see that sort of thing,” Maddy explained. “One of the more stable regions in the Middle East.”
Brent digested that but still failed to see the significance. “So the odds are low for something like this. But it’s Afghanistan—is this really that surprising?”
“In addition to being one of the cultural and economic beacons in the country,” Richards said, “Tablisi is also home to a large oil refinery.”
“And I’ll give you three guesses as to the only industrial casualty of this tribal skirmish,” Maddy finished.
It took precious few seconds for Brent to track with them.
“So this was designed to destroy the refinery,” he said.