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

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “We’ve got a hit!” announced Tong, who then held up a finger. “Correction. We’ve got multiple hits!” She pointed at the displays at the front of the room, three files showing with headshots, their records scrolling underneath.

  “What am I looking at?” asked Leroux as he rose from his station and stepped closer to the screens.

  “These are the three that were found in Akhtar’s house when the authorities arrived. Two were shot dead, one killed in an explosion. Their bodies were stripped of any identification which suggests there were others involved in the execution of Akhtar and his family that survived the attack.”

  Child spun in his chair. “They sure don’t look like the photos we were sent. Those bodies had full beards and long hair. They were full-on fundamentalist.”

  Tong tapped at her keyboard and a moment later the headshots were displayed alongside the crime scene photos. “Give them a haircut and a shave, and they’re the same guys. Their fingerprints have been confirmed. Meet Khasi Varayev, Takhir Aslanbekov, and Alty Charyeva, all known mercenaries. Varayev and Aslanbekov are from Chechnya, loyal to the Russian-supported government. They served in their forces for five years in the same unit, then left and went private. Charyeva is from Turkmenistan. Private for as long as we’ve got files on him.”

  “Chechnya and Turkmenistan? Interesting. Both former Soviet territories, both with Russian-friendly governments.”

  “And with their ethnicity, they all look the part if they just skip the barber. Perfect candidates if you want to run an op in Afghanistan. They’re not technically Russian, so if they’re caught, Moscow can deny any involvement.”

  “Okay, let’s see if we can trace their movements. Also, I want any known associates of theirs circulated. My guess is they’re cleaning up before pulling out. Let’s get photos out to all the airports in the area. And have the computer slap some beards on them as well.”

  “You got it,” replied Tong, immediately going to work.

  Child stared at the ceiling, slumped in his chair. “Is this the smoking gun we’ve been looking for?”

  Leroux shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re getting closer.”

  Child frowned. “What’s going to satisfy Washington?”

  “A signed confession,” chirped Therrien from the back.

  Leroux chuckled. “That would help, but I don’t even know if that would be enough. We’re talking Russia, not Syria. Even if we had irrefutable proof, Washington’s likely to want to go to the UN about it rather than target Russian assets and risk escalating the situation.”

  Child grunted. “I say the hell with it. Escalate. These bastards killed our men and women. They don’t deserve to escape just because they have nuclear weapons.”

  Leroux sat. “I agree with the sentiment, which is why I’m happy decisions like that are above my pay grade.” He chewed his cheek for a moment. “The President’s going to want to target something very specific that sends a message.”

  “Who? Like the guy behind it?”

  Leroux shrugged. “The guy behind it could be the big man himself.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not going to get his hands dirty. Take out the one who carried out the orders, and maybe the big guy gets the message not to do it again.”

  Leroux pursed his lips. “Have we got anything more from Echelon on that Moscow number that was dialed?”

  Child checked the system and shook his head. “No, beyond that first brief call, everything else to that number has come in from local numbers, all encrypted.”

  “And our code breakers haven’t been able to make out anything about the phrase that was said in that call?”

  “No, the last report is that they couldn’t find anything in their recent intercepts with that phrase, but they’re looking deeper. ‘Albatross is a go.’ What the hell is an albatross anyway?”

  “It’s a type of bird.”

  “I think it’s also a double eagle in golf,” added Therrien.

  Child scratched his armpit. “So, a bird around your neck is supposed to indicate what? Hardship?”

  Leroux chewed his cheek at the colloquialism, an albatross around your neck. It was something that dragged you down, inhibited your progress, a burden. If Afghanistan were anything, it was definitely an albatross for America. Twenty years of constant fighting, of countless lives. The question had been posed earlier once the Russian connection had been suggested. What would they gain? The hostilities between the two countries were heating up, but in no way was it at the level where openly murdering each other’s troops was on the agenda. Yet if they were employing mercenaries, it wasn’t that overt, as they were making an effort to hide what they were doing.

  But what was their motivation? What would killing American troops accomplish beyond simply killing American troops? Taking out several dozen of your old Cold War enemy accomplished nothing in a numbers game in the millions. If you removed Russia from the equation and looked at it purely as if it were the Taliban attacking, which was what everyone had been made to believe, then what did that accomplish?

  Tong folded her arms and leaned back as Leroux continued to think. “All these attacks, especially where they’re happening in peaceful areas, could they be wanting to destabilize these other regions?”

  Leroux’s head bobbed as he was pulled out of his internal debate. “That’s what I was thinking as well. Keep killing our troops repeatedly, make it look like the Taliban are doing it in areas where they’re not supposed to be that well organized, and it makes it look like they’re operating with impunity throughout most of the country.”

  “But what does that gain the Russians?” asked Child.

  Tong’s eyes shot wide as her jaw dropped. “It’s revenge!”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and Leroux turned his chair to face her. “Revenge for what?”

  “For what we did in the eighties. We supplied the Mujahideen with weapons, including Stinger missiles. They were shooting helicopters and airplanes out of the sky, blowing up tanks. Thousands of Soviet soldiers died because we supplied the weapons.”

  “Yeah, but that was over thirty years ago,” said Child. “And the Soviet Union doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Leroux rose and paced, his arms folded, a lone finger tapping on his chin. “The Russian president is former KGB. He thinks the greatest tragedy to have ever befallen the world is the collapse of the Soviet Union, and he’s doing everything he can to restore it. The only real difference between the Soviet Union and today’s Russia is that they have embraced capitalism. Anything America did to the Soviet Union in the past will be treated by him as if it were done to today’s Russia. He doesn’t make a distinction between the two. Russia is the Soviet Union just by a different name. He could be trying to inflict as much pain on us before we leave where his beloved Soviet Union was defeated.”

  “But why now, why wait so long?”

  “Because we’re leaving. This is their last chance to get revenge, but if they’re truly successful, they might be thinking we’ll delay our drawdown because the country isn’t stable enough for us to leave.”

  Child grunted as he spun in his chair. “And if we don’t leave, they keep killing us.”

  “Exactly. Either way, they win.”

  “So, what do we do about it?”

  “We keep looking for that proof so Washington can decide how they want to respond. For now, let’s keep tracking that phone in Moscow, start cross-referencing its locations against known members of the Kremlin inner circle. We might get lucky.”

  Therrien cleared his throat. “I might have something here.”

  “What’s that?” asked Leroux.

  “When we found out about the attack on Akhtar’s house and the fact that three of the hostiles were killed, it got me thinking they might want to abort, especially if they aren’t locals, and the quickest way out of Afghanistan is by air. I’ve got four last-minute tickets, all bought within fifteen minutes of each other, all under different
names, different credit cards.”

  “Any IDs?”

  “Just the names on the tickets. I’m running them now.”

  “If it is the Russians, even if they’re fake, it’s probably going to be hard to tell,” said Tong.

  Leroux agreed. “When does that flight leave?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Then we better act fast.”

  36 |

  Hamid Karzai International Airport Kabul, Afghanistan

  Dawson, Atlas, Spock, and Jagger approached the rear of the Airbus A220 idling on the tarmac, the pilot ordered to wait for a VIP passenger. The stairs were still pushed up against the front door and were the single way inside. They had received the orders to hit the plane less than half an hour earlier, and a Black Hawk had dropped them off only minutes ago.

  There had been no time to plan the op the way they usually would. Fortunately, they trained for these scenarios all the time on different types of airplanes, including this one. Everyone on his team knew the layout, knew the blind spots, knew exactly what arc they were covering, so they could all rush forward, shooting, without risking hitting each other or leaving any hostiles uncovered.

  Fifty-four civilians were on board, four of whom were their targets, though there could be more, and there was still a chance these men they were after were innocent. Their aim wasn’t to go in and shoot them all, their aim was to secure them for questioning. If, however, their targets attempted to engage, his team’s ROEs allowed them to respond with lethal force.

  They reached the rear of the fuselage, unseen by any passengers, though if anyone were observing the airport, they could phone in a warning, which was why cellphone jammers had been deployed the moment they arrived.

  He activated his comms. “One-One, Zero-One. Any sign of activity, over?”

  “Negative, Zero-One. All I’m seeing are pissed-off passengers, over,” replied Niner from a sniper’s nest atop the airport terminal with Jimmy. The likelihood of them being able to help was minimal if the battle remained on board, but if it took a turn for the worse and ended up outside the plane, they could prove invaluable.

  “Copy that, One-One. Making entry now.” Dawson surged toward the stairs, hugging the fuselage so anyone peering out a window wouldn’t see him. He broke away, heading for the foot of the stairs then raced up them with the others on his heels, his Glock at the ready. The aircraft’s layout was seared in his mind, the seat numbers assigned to their targets overlaid on the image of what he was about to face. Their targets were scattered about the cabin on both sides of the aisle, front to back. His job was to secure the one at the rear so those behind him wouldn’t have to struggle past him to get to theirs.

  He cleared the hatch and turned right, sprinting down the aisle shouting, “United States Military! Everybody stay put and raise your hands!”

  Half those on board followed the orders, the other half either didn’t, or didn’t understand them. He reached his target and aimed his weapon squarely at the man’s chest, recognizing him from the security footage taken when the man checked in. He ignored the shouts behind him as the others secured their targets.

  “Allahu Akbar!” shouted someone behind him and Dawson cursed then flipped his weapon around, grabbing it by the muzzle and pistol-whipping his target. Gunshots rang out before he could turn. Spock stood, his Glock aimed at a seat. Dawson couldn’t see the passenger, though there was little doubt Spock had shot him. Somebody leaped from across the aisle, grabbing for Spock’s weapon, and Dawson fired two shots, both hitting the man squarely in the back, center mass. He dropped in a heap as Spock took two steps back. A man rose to Dawson’s left and he coldcocked him, sending him back into his seat, blood trickling down his forehead.

  And the passengers erupted in a mix of panic and rage.

  Orders barked from the front of the plane, with a tone that had everyone, including him, turning toward the new masked arrival.

  “Everybody calms down, now, or I’ll give orders to shoot anyone who moves!”

  Kane’s order, delivered in Pashto, silenced most of those screaming and yelling at his former comrades. He adjusted the ski mask covering his face. “Good. Now we’re going to be taking a few people from the plane for questioning, then you can continue on your way.”

  “Who do you think you are?” screamed a woman in English, seated near the front of the aircraft, dressed in Western attire.

  Kane drew his weapon and aimed it at her. “I think I’m the man with the gun who has orders to kill anyone who interferes with the apprehension of potential terrorists.” He tilted his head at Dawson’s team. “Now these are American soldiers. They won’t kill you. But my orders are different. I’m not an American soldier. Now I suggest you take your seat, shut your mouth, and let these men do their job trying to protect you. Otherwise, you’ll get to see firsthand just how far my orders let me go.”

  The woman’s face slackened as she dropped back into her seat defeated, called out on her arrogant presumption that because she was white she shouldn’t be subjected to what was happening.

  Kane turned to Dawson. “Well, that turned into a Charlie Foxtrot.”

  Dawson shrugged. “Shit happens. Two of our targets are still alive.”

  “Let’s get our guys out of here. We need to contain this as quickly as we can before word gets out.” Kane turned around and left the aircraft. Several dozen Afghan security personnel were waiting outside and he walked up to the colonel in charge. “Here’s your story, Colonel. During an operation to arrest a known terrorist, he managed to open fire with a weapon smuggled on board. The terrorist was killed along with four men who attempted to intervene. Their names will be released once they’ve been identified and next of kin notified. The plane is grounded for the investigation, and the passengers will all be held for questioning for the next twenty-four hours to determine if they had any involvement. It’s absolutely essential that nobody who witnessed that operation gets word out on what happened for one full day. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. Your allies appreciate your cooperation in this matter.” Kane bowed his head slightly and spun on his heel, following Dawson and the others as they led the two surviving prisoners from the plane and toward a Black Hawk helicopter landing nearby. Kane climbed on board as hoods were fitted over the prisoners’ heads. He extended a hand and hauled Niner into the back as Atlas did the same for Jimmy. The helicopter lifted off and banked away from the scene of the action as the Afghan security forces swarmed on board the now grounded aircraft.

  “Well, that went about as expected,” said Niner.

  Dawson agreed. “Yeah, as soon as they figured out who we were after, I think they all decided they’d rather die than risk having Moscow think they were surrendering willingly.”

  Kane noticed one of the men tense at the mention of Moscow, and he played it up. “Well, the Kremlin’s going to want to know why two of their guys are dead and why we have two in custody. I spoke to the local commander, and he’s agreed to hold everybody for twenty-four hours, so by the time Moscow realizes these guys didn’t arrive at their destination, they will have plenty of time to spill their secrets.”

  Dawson smiled slightly, picking up on what was going on. “And when you’re done with them?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. It depends on how hard they make me work. Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I release them early so they can get a head start on their Kremlin buddies. Make me work for it, then the body count from what just happened might go up by two. It all depends. I think we’ve got two errand boys here. It’s up to them whether they want to die for the people who revealed where we could find them.”

  One of the hoods spun toward him and Kane’s smile spread. Not only did these men speak English like he suspected, but he could get a reaction out of them that quite often revealed more than words.

  The next few hours could prove very interesting.

  37 |

  Briefin
g Room 3C, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Leroux sat beside the Chief in a conference room filled with more CIA senior management than he had seen in a long time. At the front of the room, the displays showed a grid of DC and Pentagon senior officials, including the President.

  Leroux was shaking, his nerves threatening to get the better of him. He had been in briefings like this before, usually a wallflower, though at times he had been required to speak. But this was different. The Chief had called this meeting, but there would be one person giving the briefing, one person answering the questions, including questions that might come from the President himself.

  Him.

  This was his briefing, and the decisions made here today could eventually lead to war.

  Morrison was speaking now, saying something that was just a distant echo, and he felt overwhelmed, his chest tightening.

  “Breathe,” said Tong in his ear, her calming voice triggering him to inhale deeply, the action snapping him back to reality. He reached forward and grabbed his insulated mug, taking a drink of the ice-cold water it contained, thanking God Sherrie had cured him of his Red Bull habit, otherwise they would be prying him off the ceiling right now like a cartoon cat.

  “So, I’ll hand things over to one of my top analysts, Chris Leroux.”

  Morrison turned to Leroux and gave him a reassuring smile that didn’t help one bit. Leroux took another drink of his water and inhaled again. “Thank you, Director Morrison. What follows is a summary of what my team and others, both at Langley and on the ground, have discovered during the course of our investigation. At this moment, what we are calling the Bounty Program, has been linked to seven separate ambushes on our people resulting in over thirty deaths, all while on missions in normally peaceful areas of Afghanistan.

  “On two occasions, including the most recent attack, overhead drones caught footage of a man taking photos of the bodies of our soldiers. These were two different men. We’ve now been able to determine the purpose of the photos. This man on the screen”—an image of Akhtar appeared as Tong controlled the visual aspect of the presentation—“is Abu Mohammed Akhtar, a former Al-Qaeda lieutenant, once close to Bin Laden. Our intel tells us he was ejected from the organization shortly after nine-eleven. He apparently opposed the attacks, thinking our reprisals would be too great, and it would actually backfire on them. He’s been out of their organization for almost twenty years, but we have photographic evidence, and eyewitness testimony, that he’s one of the men behind the attacks on our troops.