The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “Were any of them killed?”

  “No, only our people. We lost six, including the imam.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Everybody fled the village and hid in the hills. There are some caves nearby. Your people arrived, then when they left, we returned. I went back to the city, made the phone call, met with the man, he looked at the photos I took, gave me the money, took the phone, and left. I bought some supplies for the village to repair the damage along with all of the roofs, then met you on my way back.”

  Kane removed the gun from the man’s testicles, the story plausible. “Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?”

  “I think so.”

  “And are you willing to help us find him?”

  Jafar’s face slackened. “If I do, they might attack my village.”

  “Only if they find out, but I can guarantee you that if you don’t help me, your village will be labeled as collaborators.”

  Jafar stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t be eligible for any aid, and no one will come to help you should the Taliban arrive. You’ll be on your own. NATO won’t help you because of what you did, your own government won’t help you, and we’ll spread word to the Taliban that you cooperated with us.”

  Jafar closed his eyes, defeated. “So, I have no choice.”

  “No. Murderers don’t get choices.”

  “Then I guess I’ll help you.”

  You bet your ass you will.

  Kane opened the center console and slid aside a secret panel. He removed a set of comms and inserted the earpiece before activating the system.

  And wondered if Langley had a sketch artist who spoke Pashto.

  16 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Leroux watched as two Black Hawks and an Apache entered the frame, the drone still circling overhead, the gunman failing in his attempt to take it out. The audio from the Rapid Response team leader was being fed directly through to them, playing on the speakers overhead. Something was being said in Pashto and a CIA translator in his ear interpreted.

  “He’s ordering them to lay down their weapons or they’ll be fired upon.”

  Weapons were tossed to the ground and hands raised. Half a dozen men from the lead chopper rappelled into the village center as the Apache hovered menacingly over the cluster of homes. The second chopper set down at the edge of the village, troops pouring out, a mix of American and Afghan soldiers spreading out in teams of two, conducting house-to-house searches.

  “Control, this is Diggler. Status report, over.”

  Child snickered as he had every time Kane’s freshly chosen callsign was used. Though he hadn’t the first time. It was one of the senior analysts, twenty years Child’s senior, who revealed the source. A quick Google of Boogie Nights and Child was in the loop. And still stuck in it, apparently.

  Leroux reactivated his headset. “House-to-house searches are underway. At the rate they’re going, assuming no delays, they’ll probably be done in ten or fifteen minutes, over.”

  “Any sign of resistance?”

  “Negative, Diggler. Everyone seems to be cooperating.”

  Kane grunted. “That tends to happen when you have an Apache staring you down. Control, we’re going to be staying out of the village with our witness. He’s agreed to cooperate. If the villagers ask, tell them he’s been taken for interrogation.”

  “Roger that, Diggler.”

  “Tell your whiz kid to expect some dates, times, and locations. They’re all going to be approximate. I need you to figure out if there is a cellphone that was used at all those times. It could be the one given to our friend here. If we get lucky, it might still be active.”

  “Roger that, Diggler. We’ll get on it as soon as you send us the details.”

  “Okay, stand by, Control. We’ll get you that information in a few minutes. Diggler, out.”

  Leroux returned his attention to the drone footage, watching as a pile of weapons grew in the village center. When the search was finally over, an Afghan major strode up to an elderly man and patted him down, removing a brown envelope a moment later. He held it up triumphantly toward the eye in the sky, and Leroux smiled as he activated his comms.

  “Dragon Heart, this is Control. Confirm the contents of the envelope, over.”

  “Roger that, Control. Stand by.” One of the American soldiers walked over to the Afghan with the envelope. It was handed over then opened. “Control, Dragon Heart Zero-One. Confirmed it’s cash. Looks to be at least five grand in US currency, over.”

  “Copy that, Zero-One.”

  “Any further special requests, Control?”

  “Take photos of all the men, confiscate any automatic weapons, leave their hunting rifles, and make sure that money gets to our asset. He’s about two klicks south of your position in an SUV parked on the side of the road, over.”

  “Roger that, Control. Dragon Heart, out.”

  Child spun in his chair. “I just got that intel from Kane.”

  Leroux turned in his chair. “Good. Get to work on it. Pull whatever resources you need. That’s your top priority right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leroux’s headpiece squawked. “Control, Diggler. Do you happen to have a sketch artist there who speaks Pashto?”

  Leroux’s eyebrows shot up.

  What the hell does he need a sketch artist for?

  17 |

  Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan

  Kane stepped out of the SUV as the Black Hawk hovered overhead. A bag was tossed down to him and he let it hit the ground. He picked it up and opened it, finding the brown envelope in question inside. He waved up at the chopper, giving a thumbs-up, and it banked away, quickly gaining altitude and rejoining the other two helicopters. He climbed into the SUV and started the engine, heading away from the village and toward their next destination. He adjusted the air conditioning to just take the edge off—unless you were truly suffering, it was never wise to create too great a differential between the outside and the inside. A few degrees were enough, otherwise the moment you stepped back outside, you’d be roasting.

  He handed the envelope over to Mo. “Count it.”

  The translator flipped through the bills, and Kane checked his rearview mirror. Jafar was visibly upset. “Five-thousand-six-hundred-and-twenty,” said Mo finally. “Mostly a mix of twenties and fifties, all US dollars.”

  Kane reached for his phone, now connected to the vehicle’s communication system. He tapped a few buttons, launching an app supplied by Langley, then handed the phone to Mo. “Use this. Start taking photos of all the bills. The app will verify that it’s not counterfeit and record all the serial numbers, looking for patterns. It’ll also upload them to Langley.”

  Mo’s eyes bulged as he stared at the thick stack. “All of them?”

  Kane chuckled. “All of them. And just remember what that stack of bills represents. Six American lives. Those serial numbers could lead back to whoever is behind this.”

  “Isn’t it just the Taliban?”

  Kane pursed his lips. “It could be and it likely is, but why the payouts? That’s completely out of character. Normally, the Taliban would just make contact, tell them what they were going to do, make their demands, then do it. Or, they wouldn’t even tell them at all. It just doesn’t make sense. And why here? This place is of no strategic importance, especially with the border closed to China.”

  “What about the other sites? Were they important?”

  “Some were, some weren’t, but like I said when I briefed you, we can’t be sure they’re all connected. Some might simply have been regular attacks, just in unusual areas.”

  “What about the one where they were taking photos?”

  “Strategically unimportant.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  Kane paused for a moment, slowing as he approached a missing part of the road. “If I wanted to creat
e instability, this would be one way to do it. Make the entire country appear unsecured, and perhaps NATO doesn’t pull out so quickly.”

  “But why would the Taliban do that? It’s to their advantage for NATO to leave.”

  “Maybe it’s not the Taliban.”

  Kane glanced in the rearview mirror, having forgotten he was still speaking in Pashto, many of his conversations with Mo in the man’s native language so that Kane could keep up his skills. “What do you mean?” he asked Jafar.

  Jafar looked away, as if remembering he wasn’t part of the team. He was their prisoner.

  Kane accelerated as they cleared the destroyed portion of the road where an IED had clearly gone off at some point. “Listen, Jafar, the sooner we have our answers, the sooner you can go home, and if there’s a chance this isn’t the Taliban, we need to know that. Why did you say what you did? This could help you and your people.”

  Jafar stared at his hands as he wrung them. “It’s just that I have my suspicions that the men that arrived in our village that morning weren’t Afghan.”

  Kane’s eyebrow shot up as he exchanged a surprised look with Mo. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, only one of them spoke. He was definitely Afghan, but the others said nothing, at least to any of my people. But when they were rushing down the hillside into the village, one of them tripped and cursed in a language I didn’t recognize.”

  Kane’s foot eased off the accelerator as his mind became distracted. “And you have no idea what language it was?”

  Jafar shook his head.

  “Could it have been English, Russian, Chinese?”

  Jafar shrugged. “No idea. I speak Pashto and Dari. I think I heard Chinese when I was younger, but I wouldn’t know.”

  “These other men who didn’t speak, did they look Afghan?”

  “Oh, yes. To me, they appeared true Taliban, and if it weren’t for the man cursing, I never would have suspected anything. And at the time, I didn’t, not until you two started talking.”

  Kane chewed his cheek for a moment as he pressed harder on the accelerator. He had a rendezvous to keep at a small airstrip where a plane would be waiting to take them to their next destination, but this new bit of intel could be a bombshell. He motioned toward the bills forgotten in Mo’s hand, switching to English. “Get to work on those. I’m going to contact Control. Somebody needs to start looking into our friend’s idea.”

  18 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  “The serial numbers are starting to come in,” announced Tong.

  Leroux turned his chair to face her. “Start running them, see if we can find out any history on them, what bank first received them, were any of them reported stolen, anything that might give us an idea where they came from.”

  “We’re on it,” replied Tong.

  The speakers overhead squelched. “Control, Diggler. Come in, over.”

  Leroux adjusted his headset and tapped the button to accept the communication. “Diggler, Control. Go ahead, over.”

  “Our friend has suggested an interesting possibility. He says he believes at least some of the people who arrived in his village the morning of the attack may not have been from Afghanistan. They may have actually been foreigners, despite looking the part.”

  Leroux leaned back in his chair, turning it to take in the room, everyone momentarily distracted from their duties. If it weren’t the Taliban or some other local terrorist group, then who the hell was it? Why would there be foreign combatants in Afghanistan?

  Then something occurred to him. “Diggler, are we certain it’s not just other Muslim fundamentalists from around the world joining the cause?”

  “No, Control, we’re not sure. Anything’s possible with these people. Like we saw with ISIS, we were fighting American citizens. Just cast a broader net in your search. See if you get lucky on piecing together some of their faces. According to our contact, they would be the ones firing on the imam’s home.”

  “Roger that, Diggler. We’ll get right on it.” He checked a display showing the projected ETA for Kane at his rendezvous point. He had about five minutes to spare in a two-hour drive. “Diggler, you’d better get a wiggle on. We don’t want Shaw’s of London to get a bad reputation for holding up flights.”

  Kane chuckled. “As long as Shaw’s is paying for my speeding tickets, we should be fine. Diggler, out.”

  The entrance to the operations center opened with a beep and a hiss, Director Morrison stepping inside. Normally, the man received his updates electronically. Whenever he did show up, it meant he either had a personal interest, concern for one of his people, or someone from Washington on his back.

  He was guessing the latter.

  He rose. “Hey, Chief, how can we help you?”

  “If anyone’s got a crowbar, maybe they can help pry Washington off my ass. The moment you confirmed there were payouts for the death of American troops, the Pentagon went ape-shit crazy. They want to know who is behind this, and then eliminate them publicly so nobody ever gets the idea of doing this again. Incentivizing people to kill our troops can never be tolerated.”

  “We’re working on it, Chief. Kane just reported a few moments ago that their local contact believes the men that arrived to direct the attack might not have been from Afghanistan. Kane’s also sending us all the serial numbers on the bills that were recovered. We’re also looking for a pattern in the phone calls made in Baharak to see if we can track the phone that might have been used to coordinate the pay-off. And Kane requested a sketch artist to put together a composite of the man who made the payout.”

  Morrison’s head bobbed with satisfaction the entire time. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Leroux smirked. “Keep Washington on your ass and not ours?”

  Morrison roared with laughter and slapped Leroux on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best, son, I’ll do my best.” He headed toward the door, throwing his hand up in the air, giving the team a quick wave. “Excellent work, people, keep it up!”

  The door was about to hiss shut when it reopened and an awkward looking man stumbled in.

  “Did someone request a sketch artist that speaks Pashto?”

  19 |

  Leroux/White Residence, Fairfax Towers Falls Church, Virginia

  Leroux yawned as he stepped inside the apartment he shared with the love of his life, Sherrie White. The giggling he had heard on the other side of the door fell silent and a head poked around the corner as Sherrie leaned over on the couch.

  “Hey, sweetie. Keep that thing in your pants. We’ve got company.”

  Leroux chuckled. “It wouldn’t matter. I’m too tired.” He kicked his shoes off and stepped into the living area to see Lee Fang, her legs curled up under her on the other end of the couch, a glass of white wine in her hand. Sherrie rose and gave him a kiss that had him rethinking his previous statement before she finally broke away.

  “I missed you,” she whispered.

  “Me too.”

  She tilted her head toward the bottle on the table. “Can I pour you a glass?”

  He waved it off. “No, I’m going straight to bed after I have a shower.”

  “Want us to join you?”

  Leroux’s eyes shot wide and he glanced at their guest, the sultry look on Fang’s face forcing them even wider. “Huh?”

  Sherrie roared in laughter and Fang joined in. “Oh, dear, you should see your face.” She patted his cheek. “You couldn’t handle both of us. Go take your shower, then get your rest. We’ll try to keep it down.”

  “Perhaps I should leave,” said Fang, putting her glass on the table.

  Leroux held up a hand, stopping her. “No, don’t worry about it. I’m just going to have the smart speaker play white noise and I’ll be out like a light. You two have fun.”

  Sherrie leaned in and grabbed him by the ass. “Wake up half an hour early, and we can have a little fun.”

  Something down below declared its
vote in favor of her suggestion. “We’ll see,” he said. “But I could get called back at any minute.”

  She gave him a peck, releasing the grip she had on his ass. “Then you better get to bed.”

  He headed toward the bathroom, then glanced back at Fang. “Oh, Dylan says hi.”

  She smiled. “If you get a chance, say hi back, and ask him how his balls are doing.”

  Sherrie snorted.

  He blocked any more information with his hand. “I still don’t want to know what the hell you two are talking about.”

  “She shot him in the nuts because he shot her in the twins,” explained Sherrie, with a touch of indignation. She threw a finger toward Fang. “Show him.”

  Fang rose and grabbed the bottom of her shirt, sending Leroux running from the room, the two girls cackling behind him. He stripped out of the clothes he had been wearing for two days then climbed into the shower, leaning his forehead against the tile as he let the hot water run over his exhausted body. He finally pushed off the wall with his hands then washed, the occasional laugh or excited utterance heard from the two women.

  And he smiled.

  He couldn’t believe how good his life was. It wasn’t that it was necessarily that much better than most people’s, it was just that it was far better than anything he had imagined for himself. He had been certain his life would be spent alone, split between a generic cubicle and an apartment bereft of any signs of a life well lived.

  But then he had met Sherrie, and everything had changed. He thanked God every day that Director Morrison had used her to test his loyalty with a honeypot trap. It had broken his heart when he found out the truth, but thanks to Kane who forced them back together, they were now a couple. This was the woman he was going to marry. This was the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with.

  Assuming her job as a CIA operative didn’t get her killed.

  He shut off the shower, toweled dry, then climbed into bed, setting the alarm on his phone. Sherrie giggled on the other side of the wall and he told his smart speaker to play white noise, the static immediately blocking out most of the sounds of life around him. He closed his eyes, fitting a sleeping mask in place, blocking out the early evening sun forcing its way around the edges of the blackout curtains.