Kilroy input a six-digit number on the keypad and entered it. The handset throbbed with a rush of added power. The hum deepened. The tank combat game screen graphics vanished, replaced by a grid-square map of an urban area. The sector depicted was a scale map of Azif’s Old Town district, centering on the Red Dome Mosque and its surroundings.
He pressed some more keys, zooming in on the image and magnifying it. Streets radiated out from the mosque in a starburst pattern. A trapezoidal shape that was a building stood at a corner of an intersection. Inside the trapezoidal shape was a green dot that blinked on and off.
The dot represented a transponder that continuously emitted signals on a preset frequency. The transponder had been implanted in what Kilroy liked to think of as The Package. The handheld device was a locator disguised as a video game. Its purpose was to keep track of The Package through the transponding implant.
The readout confirmed that The Package had not yet been moved. The locator and implant rig were his way of keeping Jafar honest. If Jafar’s reports coincided with the locator’s findings, well and good. If not, Kilroy would still be able to identify the whereabouts of the package.
The device was hardened against tampering. Its locator function could only be accessed with the correct numerical code, which was updated every few days. Any attempt at unauthorized interference would activate a destruct mechanism that would turn the interior hardware into a mass of melted slag in less than thirty seconds.
Kilroy switched off the power and set the device aside.
He got dressed, donning a T-shirt, baggy pants, boots, and a utility vest. He slipped the locator in the inside breast pocket of the vest. The gun went into an oversized cargo pocket on his right pant leg.
He pulled on an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. He was from Georgia, not from Atlanta, but from the rural town of Bishop. He’d enlisted in the Army as soon as he was legally of age to do. His father of record had been only too happy to see him go. He had no love for this bastard son of an Army killer that an adulterous wife had foisted off on him. Kilroy reciprocated the other’s dislike. He shook the dust of Bishop off his shoes and never looked back. He’d only visited the place a couple of times since in the last two decades, one of them to attend his mother’s funeral. He had nothing against the town, but he had nothing for it, either. He hadn’t been back since his mother’s death and he had no plans to do so. He never stopped being a big Braves fan, though.
He exited, going down the hall to Vang Bulo’s room. It was empty. He found the big man in the lobby, sitting in an armchair near one of the front windows, reading a copy of the World Business Weekly newspaper. He wore a sporty, oversized jogging suit and a pair of size fourteen sneakers.
Vang Bulo folded the newspaper, set it down on a side table, and rose. Kilroy crossed to him. He said, “Let’s get some breakfast.”
Vang Bulo said, “It’s lunchtime.”
“Let’s get some lunch, then. I really didn’t want to eat breakfast anyhow.”
They went through the front doors and outside. They paused, standing in the watery shade cast by a projecting overhang.
Kilroy immediately broke a head-to-toe sweat. “Whew . . . Hot!”
“Yes, it’s hot,” Vang Bulo said fiercely. “Of course it’s hot. It’s always hot here. Confoundedly hot.”
Kilroy showed mild surprise. “I thought you were used to the heat. Uganda’s hot.”
“Ah, but that’s a moist heat. It lets your skin breathe and keeps your moving parts oiled,” Vang Bulo said. “This dry heat sucks the moisture out of you and dries you up like a toad in a hole. The dust clogs my pores, gets into my nose and throat.”
“You do sound kind of stuffed up, like you’ve got a head cold or something.”
“How I long for the rainy season.”
“It’s a little delayed this year,” Kilroy said. He eyed the landscape to the south and the sky above it. “Looks like it’s going to be delayed a little longer.”
The sky was a dirty gray-white color, marbled with brown streaks of windblown dust. The sun was a tawny, lion-colored disk. A wind was blowing in from the south. A hot wind, hot as a blast from a pizza oven.
Kilroy said, “This could turn into a sandstorm without half trying.”
Vang Bulo said, “Is that good or bad for us? Operationally speaking, that is.”
Kilroy answered by changing the subject. “Let’s head over to the mess hall.” The other nodded. They started forward, descending a short flight of stone steps, then crossing an open area toward the mess hall.
Kilroy said, “There’s a rumor that the Visitors’ Quarters are wired. That the rooms and lobby are bugged. Maybe by some intelligence agency of ours, maybe by the security apparatus of the big contractors—maybe both. Or neither. I don’t know if it’s true or not. I never found a listening device in my room. But I didn’t look too hard, either. I figured if there was a bug, I didn’t want to alert the monitors that I was on to them. If there were monitors.
“But what the hell, more likely than not, it is bugged. That’s what I’d do. You could pick up a lot of valuable information overhearing some of the steals and deals that are cooked up by the guests in that building. If the inside of the building is wired, it would make sense to wire the outside, too.”
Vang Bulo frowned. “By that logic, you could assume that every building in the compound is bugged.”
“It’s possible,” Kilroy agreed. “But it’s unlikely that they could wire the compound out here in the open. I mean, if somebody really wanted to listen in they could eavesdrop with a parabolic microphone. But if we were under that kind of heavy surveillance coverage, we wouldn’t have to guess. We’d know.”
Vang Bulo returned to the interrupted topic of the weather. “How does the storm affect us? If there is a storm.”
“Depends. It would be good cover for Hassani to make his move. But if it’s too heavy, he won’t move. He’ll sit tight and wait for it to stop. The same goes for the Iranians at the other end of the pipeline,” Kilroy said.
The compound was a scene of lively, buzzing activity. A line of flatbed trucks rolled past, bearing bulldozers, backhoes, lengths of pipe, I-beams, bags of cement, and other supplies. The trucks made for the main gate, en route to construction projects in progress out in the field. The convoy was under heavy military escort.
Kilroy and Vang Bulo paused to let it pass. Vang Bulo said, “They’ve had to stop all work in Old Town because of the militia. The only projects still functioning are in the market district and government buildings. Even there, they sometimes lose two or three men a day to insurgent sniping.”
Kilroy nodded. “The reconstruction effort needs reconstruction.”
The convoy passed, and the duo continued on, halting outside the mess hall. Kilroy eyed the sky and the scene to the south.
He said, “Looks like it could develop into a storm, but it’s early yet. It’ll take twenty-four to thirty-six hours to get rolling.”
They went into the mess hall. It was filled with good food smells. It was run by a private contractor and was open to civilian and military personnel. It was set up cafeteria style. Kilroy and Vang Bulo got on line.
The big man said appreciatively, “The chow here is pretty good.”
Kilroy said, “It must be, the way you’re filling your tray.”
They both loaded up on food and beverages, paid at the register, and went to a table in the rear. Vang Bulo sat facing the front entrance, Kilroy sat facing the rear. Between them, they had the whole space covered, so no one could sneak up on them. Not that they expected anything to happen here, not really. The odds favored that the noonday meal would pass without incident. But there were no guarantees. Iraq was a hot zone. Azif and environs were red hot. Things happened.
Midway through the meal, Vang Bulo paused with his fork suspended in midair, staring at something over Kilroy’s shoulder.
He said, “Hey, it’s your buddy.”
Kilroy kept on eating, not
bothering to turn around to see who was approaching. The Ugandan’s demeanor indicated that the newcomer posed no threat. “Who?”
Vang Bulo said, “Company man.”
That could only be Albin Prester, a slippery character and longtime acquaintance of Kilroy’s. Kilroy shrugged.
“He’s got a woman with him. She’s good looking, too,” Vang Bulo said.
Kilroy glanced over his shoulder to see them. Mainly the woman. He’d seen Prester before. Women were scarce in these parts, especially good-looking ones.
Albin Prester and a short, shapely blonde finished paying at the cash register and came down the long central aisle, making for the rear of the mess hall. They were toting plastic carryall sacks filled with plastic water and juice bottles, sandwiches, and fruit.
Prester was big, rumpled, shambling. His thinning, wavy bronze hair needed a trim and a combing, and his watery blue eyes could have used an eyewash to take the red out of them. He had a wedge-shaped nose with a wide, flat bridge. His ruddy complexion was shot through with the blue-veined traces of the habitual drinker. Heavyset, paunchy, he wore a safari jacket open over a lime green sport shirt, tan twill pants, and hiking boots.
The woman beside him was young, alert, vital. Unmistakably American. She couldn’t have been more than an inch or two taller than five feet, the top of her blond head barely level with Prester’s shoulders. At first glance, her figure had an almost girlish slimness, but she had womanly curves where it counted. Dirty blond hair was worn pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were hazel, her full-lipped mouth pink and wide. She wore a khaki top and pants.
Kilroy gave her a quick, scanning glance. Well, not so quick and not so little as a glance, either. More of an eyeful. He realized he was staring. He wasn’t alone. So were most of the men in the room.
Prester caught sight of Kilroy and steered toward him, the woman in tow. They stood to one side of the table. Prester, beaming, smacked his thin lips.
“Joseph, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said.
Kilroy nodded, smiling pleasantly. The woman said, “Albin, who’re your friends?” Her voice had a sharp nasal twang in it. Kilroy would have said she came from somewhere in the midwest.
“I’ll handle the introductions,” Prester said. “Debbie Lynn Hawley, meet Mr. Joseph Kilroy and Mr. Vang Bulo.
“Gentlemen, this is Debbie Lynn Hawley. Dr. Debbie Lynn Hawley. The doctorate is in physics—is that intimidating enough for you? It certainly is for me. She’s been engaged as an energy futures consultant by the Transworld Capital Fund. I’ve been showing her around the province, this little Garden of Eden.”
Debbie Lynn smiled brightly, acknowledging the introductions. She said, “Gentlemen, please don’t get up.”
That left Kilroy and Vang Bulo more than slightly abashed, since neither one had thought to rise on being introduced, as good manners demanded. Kilroy guessed that they were no gentlemen. He wondered if they hadn’t spent too much time away from polite society.
On the principle of better late than never, Vang Bulo pushed back his chair and rose, Kilroy following a beat later.
Vang Bulo said, “How do you do?” and shook her hand.
Kilroy said, “Glad to know you.” He shook her hand, too. She had a strong, firm grip. No wedding or engagment ring, Kilroy noticed. Her hand was smooth and warm. It was nice to hold. Kilroy would have liked to go on holding it, but he reluctantly released it from his grip.
Prester said, “Be nice to her, Joseph. Not only is she smart and attractive, but she controls fabulous sums of money. She tells Transworld where to invest in energy in the region.”
Debbie Lynn said lightly, “That’s why you attach yourself to me, isn’t it, Press?”
“Absolutely,” Prester said.
Debbie Lynn said, “What’s your line of work, Mr. Kilroy?”
“Call me Joe.”
“Please call me Debbie Lynn.”
“Glad to, Debbie Lynn.”
“What did you say your line of work is, Joe?”
Prester said, “He didn’t. Joseph doesn’t give out much.”
Kilroy said, “I’m an expediter for Mercury Transport. I help keep the mails going.”
She said, “You’re with the Post Office?”
“The Postal Service is part of the U.S. government. Here in Iraq, Washington likes to contract out as much work as it can to private industry. Mercury pays me to make sure that mail from the States gets to where it’s going, to the troops and civilian employees. Any kind of mail: postal service or private delivery or shipping firms. When traffic gets bottlenecked, I clear up the jam and get things working smoothly again.”
Prester said, “So now you know—he expedites.” He pointedly checked his watch. “We’d better be going, Debbie Lynn, if we want to keep to our site inspection schedule. It looks like there’s a storm blowing up, and it could hamper our movements in the next few days.”
Debbie Lynn nodded agreement. “Nice meeting you, Kilroy, Mr. Vang Bulo.”
Kilroy would have liked to shake hands good-bye with her, just to have an excuse to hold her hand again, but he decided not to take advantage of the acquaintance. Yet.
He said, “Watch yourself out there. Take good care of her, Prester.”
Prester laughed. “I’m counting on her to protect me! Not to worry, Joseph, we’ll be shepherded around the countryside by some of the finest bodyguards that Transworld’s money can buy.”
He and Debbie Lynn started toward the side exit door. Kilroy called after her, “See you around, Debbie Lynn.”
She said, “You never can tell.”
They crossed to the exit. Kilroy eyed her, admiring the rear view. Debbie Lynn had a juicy, rounded rump that pleasingly filled out the seat of her khaki pants.
“She looks as good going away as she does coming,” he said.
Vang Bulo set down his knife and fork, mopping around his mouth with a napkin. “Albin Prester—he can’t be as much of an ass as he seems to be, can he?”
“Nobody could,” Kilroy said.
“CIA?”
“He sure seems like a Company man. He does everything but walk around wearing a button that says, ‘Ask me about Central Intelligence.’”
“What about the blonde? What do you make of her?”
“Nothing yet, but give me time. I just met her,” Kilroy said, leering.
Vang Bulo made a wry face. “Never mind the salacious fantasies. Is she CIA, too?”
“Remains to be seen. But don’t worry. Kilroy is on the case. I’ll investigate in depth. If you get my meaning, heh-heh.”
“The sad part is that I’m sure you mean it,” Vang Bulo said.
They finished eating, went out, and loaded up the SUV. Kilroy started toward the driver’s seat, but Vang Bulo was ahead of him.
“You drove yesterday. My turn to drive today,” Vang Bulo said.
Kilroy said, “What difference does it make whose turn it is?”
“It makes a difference to me. Why should you have all the fun?”
Kilroy made a disgusted face. “Oh, all right, if that’s the way you feel. Here’s the keys. You drive.” He stalked around to the passenger side and got in.
Vang Bulo started the vehicle and drove it to the main gate and out, taking the highway west, then circling north around the outskirts of Azif before heading east on a course parallel to the main highway but several miles above it. The route was north of Azif and south of Quusaah. It was a diversionary maneuver designed to shake any tails they might have had.
The SUV wandered down a few side roads and dirt trails, passing vast fields gridded by irrigation ditches and canals. Empty land. The border foothills loomed ahead.
The Iranian scout car was stashed away in a secure locale, a concrete pillbox fortification that was built into the side of a rocky hill. It had been abandoned and forgotten since the Iran-Iraq war until some Army map analysts had rediscovered it. By some subterranean channel, all files relating to the blockh
ouse had vanished from official Army data banks and been transferred solely to the Dog Team’s computers. The data had never been shared with any other military or civilian agencies.
The concrete block structure was about the size of a firehouse. Most of it was buried underground. Its long axis lay north-south. It was dug into the east side of a hill. On the north, short side, a ramp dipped below the surface of the earth, downtilting to what looked like a solid wall. A close examination would reveal a razorline crack in the shape of a massive square-sided block.
Some months ago, a team of anonymous Dog Team technicians had come this way, cleaning out and overhauling the bunker blockhouse. They did their work for a day and a night and then moved on. One of the improvements they’d made was the installment of a new locking mechanism.
Now Vang Bulo piloted the SUV to the head of the underground ramp. Kilroy got out and descended the ramp. He took out a device similar in size and shape to a keychain flashlight. It was a kind of remote-controlled electronic key.
He pointed it at the seemingly solid wall at the foot of the ramp and pressed the switch, triggering an invisible electronic beam that activated an exterior sensor that connected to an interior, automatic locking mechanism.
A click sounded, like the pendulum ticking of an old-fashioned grandfather clock in an empty house at night. The hairline crack in the wall widened. The door was made of steel-reinforced concrete twelve inches thick. It was mounted on a sophisticated counterweight swivel system. When the automechanism was electronically unlocked, the door was free to rotate on the axis of an internal circular gatepost. So precisely balanced was it that Kilroy was able to open it with one hand.
The door was rigged with a fail-safe device. Should anyone try to force it open, it would detonate a cache of explosives that would destroy everything inside the bunker and bring the walls down.
The Return Of Dog Team Page 7