The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  When dusk prayer was over, they put their rugs away and sat in a circle. The supervisor stood in the center and began to speak.

  His manner and speech had changed from pious invocations to the brusqueness of an angry man. He also changed languages from Arabic to Urdu, a language used in Pakistan and parts of India and partially understood by Afghans and Persians.

  But one word would have been understood in any part of the world: “Osama.”

  Buried in the torrent of words he showered on the men was also the term “ten-megaton atomic bomb.”

  Their eyes glowed as they looked at each other. It was as if their destiny in life would hold far more glory.

  “Ten-megaton,” they repeated among themselves, barely aware of its exact meaning. But the implication of “atomic bomb” was clear enough.

  Then the leader quieted down, and he and his men got down to discussing details.

  Alone, Ferrar picked his way over a desolate, rocky mountain slope just within the Afghan border. His breath puffed into clouds like a steam engine. His combat uniform was smeared with blood, and his helmet was lost at the jump site, with no hat to cover his frostbitten ears.

  Snowfields lay just above him, and a constant, howling wind ripped through his fatigues and woolen undergarments straight to his skin.

  He needed warmer clothing fast.

  Just below him wandered a mule train of Pathan traders heading toward the Pakistani border. They were the only humanity he had encountered, except for the occasional fighter jet screaming by overhead.

  He would have to make friends with the men. He scooped up a handful of crumbled ice from a nearby patch of snow and wiped the greasepaint from his face. Then he began to slide down toward the mule train, his frozen toes feeling nothing in his combat boots.

  “Asalam Aleykum,” he called ahead. It was a congenial way of saying “Hello” in Urdu.

  The group stopped and sniffed the air like a herd of deer. Probably more like a pack of wolves.

  Grinning amicably, Ferrar held out his M16A2 assault rifle. That got their attention.

  He came to a stop and studied their stern, weather-beaten faces. He had hoped to make a quick swap for their clothes and be on his way. But their expressions told him otherwise. Any such transaction would take time.

  He could imagine them talking for hours, drinking hot chai and squatting around a warm fire before they got anywhere.

  Curious, an older Pathan reached out for the rifle.

  Ferrar removed the ammunition and handed it to him. The man broke the gun apart with fast, expert movements.

  “Tika,” Ferrar said, his jaw and lips nearly frozen in place. Good quality.

  The man grunted.

  “Awah?” Ferrar offered. “Yes?” He spoke some Urdu, but was far from fluent, especially when he could barely move his lips. “Awah? Buy the gun?”

  They seemed duly impressed with the rifle, though not his Urdu.

  Their guns were homemade copies of all sorts. There was a town not far from Peshawar that made nothing but replica firearms.

  The old man pointed to a huge sack on his mule’s back.

  “What…what is…is it?” Ferrar said through chattering teeth.

  Flashing a friendly smile like a carpet salesman, the man yanked down a bundle and pulled out a plastic bag full of white powder. He hefted it to show the weight.

  “Opium?”

  “Pure grade,” the man said in English.

  The men were leading four mules packed with drugs into Pakistan. How absolutely normal. What safer cover than that?

  Afghan farmers working in their poppy fields produced the world’s largest supply of illicit opium used to make heroin. Their big rival, Burma, was another case of an economy subsisting on illegal trade.

  Ferrar shot them a complicit smile. That brought a toothless grin.

  Buying a bag of opium was all he would need to gain their good graces. He was a customer.

  He handed them his rifle and took the plastic bag of opium.

  “Give me your clothes, too,” he told the man with the opium.

  The man gestured a trade for Ferrar’s fatigues.

  “It’s a deal.”

  Ferrar took a deep breath, tore off his shirt and pants and in return received floppy pajama trousers called a salwar, a tunic called a kurta, a coarse woolen coat, a shawl and a chitrali cap, named after the nearby, mountainous region where such caps were popular.

  The old man seemed to appreciate the fresh blood splattered across the front of his uniform. He didn’t seem to care whose blood it was, Afghan or otherwise.

  “Boots, too,” the man said.

  “Give me your shoes.”

  The man grunted, and the exchange was made.

  The shoes were small, but lined with wool, and Ferrar sighed with relief in his new, warm wraps. He clasped the salesman on the back and mumbled in English, “Now take me to the goddamned border.”

  A mile from Pakistan, Ferrar began to hear shouting up ahead. It sounded like a violent scene of Pakistani border patrol fighting back Afghan refugees.

  As he and the traders rounded the shoulder of the final mountain, they caught a very different sight across the barren land. It was a public rally in a refugee camp consisting of dilapidated tents.

  “Afghans?” he asked.

  One of the men nodded. “Taliban.”

  Ferrar adjusted his newly acquired local garb. He should have grown a beard as well.

  As they approached the camp, he made out men in white chitrali hats shouting with raised fists. There were no bullhorns and no apparent leaders. Rather, the men and boys were rampaging unchecked up and down the dusty road of the camp.

  Strange, there was no enforced border, no barbed wire fence, or even a check house. The only military presence was Pakistani soldiers standing around looking intimidating. They were more interested in quelling the disturbance within their border than patrolling the frontier.

  Consternation was written on his companions’ faces.

  “Don’t you like the Taliban?”

  “That’s not it,” a trader said. “This will slow us down today.”

  To the drug traffickers, the rally only brought disruption to commerce.

  Ferrar slid his hood over his head. With his dark hair and wind-burnt complexion, he just might pass for a displaced tribesman.

  If that didn’t work, the bag of opium that he had bought with his rifle might buy him passage.

  Approaching the dusty encampment, the mule train blended easily into the fray. As a goods carrier rumbled past the tents in a cloud of dust, Ferrar took the opportunity to separate from the traders and grab hold of the truck’s tailgate.

  His cold fingers could barely hold on as the wood-sided vehicle ground its way southward toward Peshawar.

  Chapter 5

  Peshawar was a crowded city, the provincial capital of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier. By the time the truck pulled into the western edge of town, Ferrar found himself choking on thick, smoky air. He could barely see a hundred feet in front of him. Winter was the wet season, and all around town, people were burning fires to warm their homes.

  He was still shivering in the chilly air. He had yet to revive the warmth in his hands and feet. But despite the cold, he grew more relaxed as he entered town. Seeing more people about improved his sense of security.

  Several years before on a previous assignment, he had lived farther south in Islamabad and had visited the rugged Wild West of Pakistan on several occasions. Principally, the city of Peshawar was built on an important trade route, the last camel train stop before Afghanistan’s dicey Khyber Pass.

  He had visited the Consulate General of the United States, Peshawar, before and knew exactly where to find it.

  The truck passed under the lovely trees of University Town. But soon, the trees largely disappeared, having been cut down for firewood. They passed through the Cantonment, an old British military station and the realm of Peshawar’s expatriate
s and wealthy citizens. Soon they entered a busy downtown area, where he jumped off.

  Amidst the sizzle and explosions of a man popping corn over an open fire, Ferrar launched into the tangle of back street Peshawar. Women shuffled along wrapped in chador scarves and warm woolen shawls. Men leaned out of their richly appointed shops selling specialty items, from beaded necklaces to old furniture. A vibrant economy was absorbing the influx of Afghan refugees with ease.

  Although their guns may have been confiscated at the border, Afghan refugees still bore the marks of their native land. Nothing could hide the hollow look in the eyes of a person cowed into submission for the previous twenty years.

  Still dressed in his tribal vestments, Ferrar decided to head into a suq, a warren of streets randomly segregated into different markets, to spruce himself up.

  He hadn’t been treated well by the marines in Tora Bora, and he might not get a friendly reception at the consulate. But still, he had to work out a way to get in to the American facility and determine his status with the government.

  He passed through several different sections looking for new clothing. There was a section for hardware, another for electrical supplies, one for paint and another where people sold decorative gifts with money stapled on them for weddings.

  He passed through a place for fabrics and other sewing things and began to sense that he was nearing his destination, when just as quickly he was surrounded by household goods. Everywhere, people came up to him carrying trays filled with whatever array of merchandise they were selling—candy, small toys, or threads and elastics.

  At last he found a small shop selling Western clothes. He settled on a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans, briefly haggled over the price, and took them away for a song.

  He found a place named Green’s Hotel along Saddar Road, one of the area’s main shopping streets. It wasn’t a hole in the wall, but it wasn’t the Hyatt either. It was just the kind of place travelers stayed in if they didn’t want to scrape bottom, but didn’t want an indoor pool either.

  He checked in and was relieved to find that no name or passport were required.

  He moved into a room that faced the back alley, a mere ten-foot-wide pedestrian walkway with colorful cloth hanging along the sides.

  Steam was rising past his window, so he leaned over to investigate. Below were pots filled with boiling dyes. Customers walked around carrying fabric that they wanted to turn a different color.

  Boy, did his clothing reek.

  He shut his curtains and stripped down. Lukewarm was the best that he could get out of his shower, but it served the purpose and he scrubbed down. Soon he slid his washed body into the T-shirt and stiff new jeans.

  He looked in the mirror to comb aside his raven-black hair. Looking back was a tall American with a well-developed physique and wide-set, coffee-brown eyes that glittered intensely. He hardly looked like a wanted man. He looked more like a man on a mission. And that mission was to expose Tray Bolton for the fraud he was, and to put a halt to whatever scheme he intended to perpetrate.

  It was dusk by the time he approached the American consulate. A local guard saw his Western features and clothing and waved him through the perimeter wall and toward a metal detector.

  A couple of locals in uniforms frisked him and sent him through the device. No weapons found, he stepped up to the scuffed-up bulletproof window.

  He wasn’t surprised to see that the consulate had added Marine Security Guards. Before the war in Afghanistan, it had been a couple of local guards standing behind the glass.

  Now a marine wearing a khaki uniform and white service cap, stood there receiving visitors at Post One. The marine seemed young, his voice crisp and efficient.

  “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  He decided to take the cautious, indirect approach. “I’m looking for a man named George Ferrar,” he said as boldly as he could.

  “Mr. Ferrar is a wanted man, buddy. You’d be looking for trouble,” the marine guard replied.

  “What did he do?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

  The young marine bit his lip, then seemed to let his outrage get the better of him. “Word has it he killed some American troops, including the son of the CIA Director.”

  Ferrar swallowed hard. Last he saw him, Tray Bolton wasn’t dead. And he certainly hadn’t killed Bolton. If anything, Bolton had nearly gunned him down.

  “In fact, the Director’s son was kind of a role model of mine,” the marine went on, his voice choking somewhat.

  Great.

  Bolton had been a good operations officer and highly decorated as a Navy Seal. But there was nothing like “death in the line of duty” to help one achieve hero status.

  Ferrar had learned all he needed to know. He was a wanted man.

  “One favor please,” he asked. “Do you know of any good restaurants around here?”

  “There’s no fact sheet on restaurants,” the marine said. “Basically, there’s just no place to eat. There’s the American Club in University Town, but they renamed it the Khyber Club after the 1998 cruise missile attack, and you need an escort to get there anyway. Then there’s the Khan Club, a former caravan stop, but you have to eat on the floor in the stable now. That’s near New Rampura Gate in Old Town, which kind of gives me the creeps anyway. That leaves you with,” he shrugged his shoulders, “the Pearl Continental, our five-star hotel.”

  Ferrar thanked the young man and left.

  He was hungry. He’d find something to eat.

  Ceremonies at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, were never public events.

  But damn it, they should be.

  Oklahoma Congressman Ralph W. Connors shifted his enormous weight as he stood inside the entranceway listening to two ringing hammers. Before him, a pair of stone carvers solemnly etched five additional stars into the marble wall commemorating all the fallen CIA heroes who had died in the line of duty over the years.

  Beside him stood CIA Director Lester Friedman with squared shoulders, a straight back and a resolute look on his face. Lester had just lost his foster son in combat, the pride still evident in his bearing. Such sacrifice for one’s country was too great not to be a matter of public record. But the only recognition Tray Bolton would ever get was a simple, anonymous star carved on a lobby wall.

  Beside Lester Friedman, a slim woman wasn’t taking it so well. No more than forty-five years of age, Rebecca Friedman fought to hold back her tears. Every few seconds, her hands darted up to her hazel eyes and cleared a tear away. Her dark brown hair in bouncy curls quivered occasionally, but she continued to stand erect, her eyes affixed on the speaker.

  “Today we commemorate the lives of five valiant federal government employees who died in the line of duty,” an Agency chaplain was saying. “Their service to this nation will be forever enshrined on this wall.”

  With that, the last stroke of a hammer rang out against the hard marble. Silence ensued.

  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

  There were no ashes for Tray Bolton. They couldn’t even find his remains in the caves of Tora Bora in Afghanistan. If Connors ever got his hands on the traitor who slaughtered these fine men, he would administer as much pain as his fifty-six-year-old, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound flab could inflict. Capital punishment wasn’t good enough for such scum.

  As chairman of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, he felt it his personal duty to protect the men and women in invisible uniform.

  His eyes traveled to the other couples present. The names of their sons would never be mentioned in this or any other official context again. Their names wouldn’t be etched into a wall, or even associated with the fighting in Afghanistan. They would go the same way as the elderly, the drug overdoses and the stillborn, into the bottomless anonymity of history.

  But their parents’ presence in those hallowed halls on that special day would forever sanctify them and bring their souls peace.

  Now wh
ere was that damned bastard who shot ’em up?

  At the American consulate, the marine at Post One felt tingling at the ends of his fingers. There was a slight electricity in the air where the stranger had just stood.

  The entire country was on heightened alert, and, as point man for the consulate, he was especially so.

  He reached for the phone without another thought and dialed his detachment commander.

  Gunny John Rojas picked up the phone in the marine barracks at once. “Rojas here.”

  “Sir, this is Post One. We’ve just had a walk-in who seemed suspicious. He was asking about Ferrar.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Didn’t get that, sir.”

  He heard a shuffle of papers on Gunny’s end. “Give me his description.”

  “Tall, good-looking, white, American accent. I’d say around forty years old. Could have been a marine once.”

  “I’m looking at a physical description here, and it doesn’t say nothing about ‘good-looking’ or ‘coulda been something.’”

  “Sorry, sir. I’d put him at six feet three, weight around two twenty, black hair, brown eyes.”

  “Can you still detain him?”

  “No, sir. He’s left the premises. Why?”

  “That was probably Ferrar.”

  “Jeez. I had no documentation on him. I didn’t expect him to walk right up to the consulate.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Gunny Rojas said. “Now, you hold the fort while I put me together a unit to track him down.”

  Ferrar shivered in his long-sleeved T-shirt. He should have also brought along his Afghan vest to keep out the cold, damp air.

  The night market in Peshawar was poorly lit. No streetlights illuminated the horn-blaring traffic that shot in fits and spurts down the middle of the street. People returning from work or foraging for dinner crowded the outer lane and paused before the fried meat stalls and vegetable stands. Individual light bulbs hung over the stores, and fluorescent lights illuminated the interiors of dry good stores, shoe stores, banks and family dwellings.