“He’ll live,” Kilroy said. “For a while. Not that we needed him alive for what comes next, but it makes it more fun that way.”
The ditch was partially sheltered from the sandstorm, avoiding its full force by being below ground level. Being in the lee of the ambulance also provided some protection from windblown dirt and chaff. The wind was hot and dry. Vang Bulo stood, crouching, ducking the top of his head below the walls of the trench.
Kilroy didn’t bother to ask if the others in the ambulance had been taken care of. There was no need. Vang Bulo would have done what he had to do. He was a pro.
Kilroy went down on one knee beside Hassani and began searching him, turning out his pockets and squeezing the folds of his clothes. The gang chief had two pistols: one in his jacket pocket and another, smaller weapon, a flat little mini-automatic tucked in his waistband at the small of his back. He was also armed with a switchblade knife, a spring-operated stiletto. His cell phone might yield potentially valuable intelligence on his contacts, but the possibility of its being equipped with a locating device made it too dangerous to be taken along. Kilroy crushed it under the heel of his boot.
Hassani’s pockets bulged with a couple of fat billfolds. Kilroy relieved him of them. Each wad of cash was in a different currency: dollars, euros, and Iraqi money. The Iraqi wad was the thickest and had the least value. His pockets also yielded a leather pouch with a drawstring mouth, which when opened was revealed to contain a handful of gold baubles, probably stolen: rings, earrings, brooches, and bracelets.
Other pocket litter included change in the amount of a half-dozen coins; a pill vial filled with capsules of many different sizes, shapes, and colors; a set of thumbscrews; a packet of chewing gum, a well-known American brand, the kind that claims to brighten your teeth while you chew; and a well-worn notebook, pocket sized, with a black leather cover and spiral binding. The pages were filled with handwritten notes and rows of number-and-letter combinations.
Kilroy indicated the notebook. “This looks promising. It’s gibberish to me, but maybe the code breakers can make something out of it.” He tucked it away in a sealed inside vest pocket for safekeeping.
Vang Bulo said, “What about the ambulance? Do we blow it up?” His head was down below ground level, out of the main airstream of the storm, but he still had to yell to be heard over howling winds.
“It’ll keep,” Kilroy said. “Why advertise our presence?” He unsnapped a pouch on his web belt, taking out a length of yellow plastic restraining tape.
Vang Bulo said, “Those things remind me of the alligator strips used to secure the tops of garbage bags.”
“Yeah, they’re good for securing garbage, all right,” Kilroy said.
He took hold of one of Hassani’s arms and rolled him over on his belly. Hassani groaned.
Vang Bulo said, “Is he coming around?”
“Not enough to matter,” Kilroy said. He placed Hassani’s hands behind his back, crossing the wrists. He looped the plastic strand around the wrists, fitting the tip through the catch and pulling it tight. The plastic restraints were thin but tough. Hassani would be unable to break free. Nothing less than a gorilla could snap that strand by force. It worked like handcuffs but weighed a lot less and was easier to carry.
Kilroy rose, giving an after-you-Alphonse type of gesture. “He’s all yours.”
Vang Bulo looked skeptical. “How come I get all the grunt work?”
Kilroy held his hands out in front of him, the backs of them turned up. A posture like a surgeon holding out his hands waiting for the nurse to snap on the rubber gloves.
“These are artist’s hands. They’ve got to perform later tonight. We mustn’t risk straining them with overwork or otherwise risking their delicate coordination,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. But he meant it, too.
Vang Bulo said, “You’re going to work that gag one too many times.”
“It’s no gag, it’s the truth,” Kilroy said, an innocent man unjustly accused.
Grumbling, Vang Bulo handed Kilroy his rifle to hold. He straddled Hassani, squatting down and bending forward, hooking his meaty hands under the other’s bound arms. He straightened with a grunt, hefting Hassani off the ground and standing him upright, then turning him around and tossing him over one massive shoulder. He stood there holding the other man without sign of strain.
Kilroy slung Vang Bulo’s rifle across his back and leveled his own, taking the fore. He moved out, Vang Bulo trotting after, with Hassani slung across his shoulder. They moved along at an easy, jogging gait. Easy for Kilroy, anyway, since he wasn’t laden with Hassani’s dead weight.
About twenty yards north of the bridge, they came to a place where the east side of the ditch was worn away. They paused. Kilroy said, “I’ll take a look-see.”
He clambered up the cleft in the ditch. He stuck his head up above the edge, cautiously. Nobody took a shot at it. Not that he was expecting that, but he wasn’t not expecting it, either.
Sand particles and grit stung his exposed flesh and pattered against the plastic lenses of his goggles. He looked around, but there wasn’t much to see.
A road ran from the east side of the bridge across the landscape, trailing off into a lazy S-curve in the near distance, disappearing into a gap between two low mounds. The scene was blurred by the sandstorm. He looked back, across the ditch toward the west. More of the same. No curiosity-seekers came from either direction to investigate the crash and shooting. Why should they? This was lonely country at the best of times. It was generally untenanted, except by smugglers, fugitives, and other border hoppers. And most of them were pinned down in their lairs, waiting out the storm.
That’s why Hassani Akkad and his gang had been using this night for the trip to the farmhouse and back.
Kilroy scrambled up to the top of the bank, crouching low, scanning from left to right. It looked clear, and he motioned Vang Bulo to come up. The big man climbed the cleft as easily as if he were climbing stairs without a human burden thrown over his shoulder. His ascent was silent, barely dislodging more than a stone or two in his passage. Kilroy listened to see if he was breathing hard. He wasn’t. The man was in top physical condition.
They moved out, crossing an open space for about fifty feet before coming to a ridge. The ridge was about eight feet high. A stand of brush made a smoky gray patch against the ridge’s darker mound. The bushes screened a notch in the ridge. On the other side lay a clearing where the SUV awaited.
Kilroy prowled the clearing, leading with his rifle barrel. The site was empty; they were alone. Vang Bulo stooped, letting Hassani slide off his shoulder and slinging him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. From a pocket he took out a device about the size of a stopwatch, square shaped and flat, but rounded at the edges.
The SUV was rigged with proximity motion detectors. The device held a gauge to monitor their readout. Vang Bulo checked it. All signs were negative, affirming that the vehicle was untouched and untampered with.
He pocketed the gauge, grabbed the collar at the back of Hassani’s neck, and dragged him across the ground to the rear of the SUV. Hassani cursed him, shouting over the wind.
Kilroy joined them. The gang chief had wriggled himself partly upright and now sat with his back propped up against a rear tire and his legs stretched out in front of him on the ground.
Hassani’s forehead, nose, and lips were mashed and bleeding. His chin and the left side of his jaw where Kilroy had kicked him were plum purple and swollen. He waggled his jaws experimentally, groaning. His stony gaze, hooded and sullen, grew hot. He glared at Kilroy. “I think you broke my jaw.”
Kilroy said, “Not the way you’re wagging it.”
“You kicked me. An unforgivable insult. For that, you will die,” Hassani Akkad said. “Wait—there is still a chance for you to save yourselves. Free me. Let me go, and you may live to see another day.”
Kilroy smiled gently. “I can guess what would have happened if any of the victims you kidnapped h
ad made such a demand of you.”
The other blustered, “Kidnapping? This is a ridiculous charge! What victims?”
“You know, the ones you kept chained and blindfolded for weeks at a time. The ones you sold to radical terrorist groups, to be beheaded in time to make the evening news on al-Jazeera. You’d have taught them a lesson pretty fast.
“Listen up, Hassani Akkad. You pulled plenty of kidnappings. Now it’s your turn,” Kilroy said. “You’ve been bagged.”
“You are mad. Still, I will play along with the game.”
“You sure will,” Kilroy said, chuckling humorlessly.
The clearing was ringed with mounds that sheltered it somewhat from the winds, but gusts reached down into the hollow where the SUV stood. Hassani squirmed, turning his head, craning, squinting against the sandstorm.
He said, “Where are the rest of your men?”
His captors made no reply.
“I see,” Akkad said at last, a crafty expression stealing on to his face. “There are no others. Just the two of you. And why not? How many does it take to attack a defenseless noncombatant ambulance? Swine! Only a little Satan or two little Satans from the Great Satan USA would be so contemptuous of the laws of war and the common decency of all mankind as to launch a cowardly attack on an innocent medical vehicle!”
“He’s sure got you pegged,” Vang Bulo said to Kilroy.
“And you!” Kilroy replied.
Hassani was impatient. “Let us come to the point: How much? How much will it cost for me to ransom myself out of your infidel clutches?”
Kilroy said, “After all the trouble we went to to get you?”
“Every man has his price. What’s yours?”
“Colonel Munghal,” Kilroy said.
After a pause, Hassani, stiff faced, said, “I never heard of the man.”
“That’s why you flinched when I said his name.”
“You are mistaken.”
Kilroy shrugged. Vang Bulo moved in, grabbing a handful of Hassani’s shirtfront and jerking him up off the ground to his feet.
Kilroy opened the back of the SUV. Inside, a couple of machines, an all-terrain vehicle, and a dirt bike were fastened in place on the floor. He said, “Throw him in the back and let’s go.”
Hassani cried, “Wait! Hear me out before you do anything rash!”
“I’m waiting,” Kilroy said. “But make it quick. We’ve got a date with Colonel Munghal.”
“You don’t know what you are doing. If you proceed with your reckless course of action, you will succeed only in getting yourselves killed along with me,” Hassani said.
“We’ll take the chance.”
“I can trade for my life!”
Kilroy was dubious. “What have you got to trade?”
“Someone far more valuable than I. Someone your masters would very much like to get hold of. They will reward you greatly.”
“Who?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Not until I know what you’ve got to trade with.”
Hassani took a deep breath before making his pitch. “Does the name Ali al-Magid mean anything to you?”
“What does it mean to you?”
“He is a very important man.”
“We’ve got you,” Kilroy said. “I’ll admit it’s an unequal swap, but you know what they say about a bird in the hand.”
Hassani Akkad snarled, his split lip making him wince. “Professor Ali al-Magid,” he said venomously. “You had better check on that name with your superiors before you commit a blunder of historic proportions.”
Kilroy said, “I know who al-Magid is: the one prize package that could tempt even a toad like Colonel Munghal out of his hole. Al-Magid will keep fine right where he is. That’s where we want him. We’ll keep you. I’m sure that the Colonel will want to tell you himself about what a great job you’re doing.”
Hassani Akkad realized the inevitable. His head bowed, downcast. An instant later he looked up, glaring. “Who betrayed me?” he demanded. “Someone must have sold me to you. Who? I have the right to know!”
“I don’t guess it’ll do any harm to let you know,” Kilroy said. “It was Jafar. Your brother Jafar put the finger on you.”
The other barely blinked. “I do not believe you.”
“Okay, don’t.”
Hassani began blinking, more and more rapidly now. “Not that I give one grain of credence to your grotesque, absurd, and insulting accusation, but just for the sake of argument, what could possibly motivate my beloved brother Jafar to stain his hands—and his name, and that of all his posterity, if any—with such infamy?”
“It’s simple,” Kilroy said. “He wants your job. They don’t call him The Whale for nothing. He wants to be the big fish.”
Vang Bulo said, “A whale is a mammal, not a fish.”
“I know, but I’m trying to make a point here.”
“From the look on Hassani’s face, I’d say you made it.”
Hassani Akkad was in a state of rage. Veins swelled, standing out on the sides of his forehead and cording in his neck. His eyes bulged. He looked like he’d been bitten by an adder and was puffing up from the venom.
Before he could shout, Kilroy slapped a wide, flat strip of duct tape across the other’s mouth. Two more strips laid across the first in an X seemed to effectually silence Hassani, more or less. Garbled, choking, guttural cries of fury were muffled by the duct tape, though not entirely cut off.
Hassani was loaded into the back of the SUV, and the hatch closed. Kilroy and Vang Bulo went around to the front and got in the cab. Vang Bulo got in the driver’s seat.
Away went the vehicle, on a collision course with Colonel Munghal.
Eight
The Rock of the Hawk marked the site of the coming showdown. The rock was the most prominent feature of a pass that connected Iraq with Iran. The pass was a gorge running east-west through the hills. Its eastern end lay on the Iranian highland, while its western end opened on a piece of Iraqi land occupied by the Akkad gang farmhouse.
Its winding course caused it to loop due north and due south in places before returning to its primary orientation. It was narrow in some places, and never too wide in most. At its narrowest, though, near the Iraqi terminus, it was still wide enough to allow the passage of a pickup truck, jeep, or similar-sized vehicle. It was too narrow for anything larger, like an armored vehicle, to proceed.
In some places, mostly on the Iranian side, it was a wide wadi flanked by low hills. Nearer to Iraq, it was bounded by rock cliffs.
The pass was a real smuggler’s highway. Other, lesser branches wormed through the hills to the north and south, opening at various points along the route. Some were no more than clefts in rock, while others were slightly better than game trails.
In Iran near the border, on the north side of the gorge, stood the Rock of the Hawk. It was so named because of the fancied likeness a knobbed formation near the summit held to a hawk’s head seen in profile. The rock was a landmark indicating the nearness of the opening into Iraq.
Below in the defile were three men: Kilroy, Vang Bulo, and Hassani Akkad. Kilroy was in a sniper’s nest; Vang Bulo was spotting nearby; and Akkad was tethered to a dead tree limb in the center of the pass. More precisely, Kilroy was in position on the north side of the gorge, where a sloping fan of dirt and stones skirted the base of the cliff. The fan was studded with boulders and other, smaller rocks which had fallen from the heights above.
A pair of car-sized boulders stood about two-thirds of the way up the fan. They were shaped somewhat like a pair of eggs, each stuck in the ground at the wider end. They leaned against each other, forming a triangular-shaped space at their bases that opened on the pass below. Behind the twin boulders lay a hollow. That was where Kilroy was set up. It was a natural foxhole.
Vang Bulo was posted on the same side of the gorge several dozen yards farther west, in a jumble of rocks at the base of the scarp. Not far beyond him, the pass took an ab
rupt turn, creating a blind corner that hid the opening into Iraq. He stood on a flat-topped boulder eight feet high, holding a pair of night vision binoculars at his side. From where he stood, looking east, he could keep Akkad and the rest of the passage reaching into Iran in view.
Hassani Akkad was placed about two hundred feet or so east of Kilroy’s sniper’s nest. He sat on the ground facing east. His hands were tied behind his back, not with the plastic restraints that had been used earlier, but with a length of thin metal baling wire looped around his wrists, the ends of which had been spliced together with a pair of pliers. He would have needed a wire cutter to get free. The wire had been tied tightly, and his hands had long since lost much of their feeling through loss of circulation, becoming numbed blocks of meat dangling at the ends of his wrists.
That was the least of his worries.
A noose was fitted around his neck, one end of a five-foot length of the same thin, tough, unbreakable wire used to bind his hands. The other end was tied to an anchor of deadwood, part of a tree limb that had fallen to the base of the cliff. It weighed about seventy-five pounds and was shaped like an oversized wishbone.
Vang Bulo had found the tree limb earlier in a cleft at the foot of the north cliff face and had dragged it out into the middle of the pass’s dirt floor. He’d handled the heavy work involving the baiting of the trap, moving the deadwood into place, and wiring Akkad to it. Kilroy had sat that one out, smug in the position that he couldn’t risk damaging his hands or straining himself with a rough shoot upcoming. Muscular tensions might undo the precise work he would soon be called on to carry out. That it was true made it no less irksome to Vang Bulo.
Here was Hassani Akkad, and here he would stay. The wire leash would see to that. The noose was rigged with a sliding loop that drew it tighter around Akkad’s neck whenever he was so unwise and ill considered to strain or tug against it.
He’d already forgotten himself once or twice, tightening its constricting grip so that the wire loop pressed taut against the corded tendons and throbbing veins of his neck.
The Return Of Dog Team Page 10