Sandfire

by Andrew Warren

  This time he did seem interested in what she was saying. “How would you know about a plane in the desert?”

  “Bedouins, Matthew, you know who they are?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, one of them might be willing to help your investigation—”

  “My investigation?”

  “Yes. You are going to investigate this, aren’t you? One of your planes is missing, after all.”

  Quinn leant back with a contemplative look in his eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me what you know, and I’ll look into it.”

  She took a deep breath, centering herself and calming her nerves. “I have an eyewitness—”

  “The Bedouin?”

  “Yes, the Bedouin. She saw the plane. She knows where it is. In return for your Embassy’s help in getting her family back, she would be willing to provide you with the location of the aircraft.” She looked at Matthew, waiting for a response. He was staring back at her, but his mind seemed elsewhere. She couldn’t guess as to what he might be thinking. He seemed to be working through a series of steps in his mind.

  Her own mind began to race. She was starting to wonder if he was an intelligence agent. What had she stumbled into? Was it something far bigger than she had imagined?

  “Where is this Bedouin woman now?” he finally asked.

  “Ah,” she said quickly, grateful that he’d broken the silence between them. “I’ll introduce her, once you and I have worked out a deal.”

  Matthew Quinn stood, then walked over and shook her hand. The skin on skin contact caused her to shiver. It had been a long time since she had felt a tingle like that at a man’s touch. When he pulled back, his hand accidentally brushed her hair. “Thank you for your time, Kimberley. I’ll look into this, I promise. I'll be in touch with you when, or if, I find anything. How does that sound?”

  "Hey, wait a second, I—”

  He rattled off her address, as he guided her towards the exit. “Is that where you live, here in Sana’a?”

  “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “It was on one of the forms you filled out, on your first visit three months ago. I’m just checking to ensure all our records are up to date.”

  She frowned. Matthew seemed a bit too efficient for a government bureaucrat.

  “They’re up to date, but if the Yemeni authorities start giving me a hard time, I’m blaming you, Mr. Matthew Quinn.”

  He led her to the door and the way out. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Hustwait. We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Despite his exhaustion, Caine couldn’t sleep. The distant shootings and the occasional bomb blast reminded him that Sana’a was a city under siege. Houthi rebels, inspired by the revolution in Egypt, had increased their insurgent activities. Their forces advanced in the south, spurred on by a single goal… to occupy this city.

  As he tossed and turned, he thought back to his interview with Kimberley Hustwait. She knew far more than he had expected. Now he was worried that their conversation could have been overheard. Someone with access to money, mercenaries and operational expertise had taken out Emily Argyle, Jarod Forster and Charles Li. This was exactly the kind of thing the CIA did well.

  Based on Kimberly's photographs, he was beginning to suspect a criminal smuggling ring was operating inside the CIA. Forster and Argyle must have been part of it. If they had felt threatened, they might have gathered evidence implicating the other parties involved. Insurance, to protect them from future reprisals. But whoever Forster and Argyle were afraid of, their ploy hadn’t worked. Their former partners had opted to permanently silence them, rather than face possible blackmail .

  The theory sounded plausible, except that Caine hadn’t figured out how the Saudis came into this.

  An explosion sounded in the distance. He felt the slightest tremor shake the hotel’s foundations.

  Caine sat upright, giving up on any thought of sleep.

  He was fully dressed anyway, including his worn desert boots. A field kit was already packed, and rested within arm’s reach should he need to leave quickly. Inside the shoulder bag was a satellite phone, water bottles, and a first aid kit, along with rations and other supplies. He had also stowed more tracking devices, like the one he had placed on Kimberley as she had exited the interview room.

  He had an SOG Seal twelve-inch fighting knife strapped in a sheath on his right leg. His SIG P226 lay under his pillow, and resting by the pack was an AK-47 rifle. The pouches in his body armor held a dozen magazines of 7.62×39mm rounds. He had purchased the weapon and ammo from a street vendor on the way back from the Embassy. He had also picked up a headscarf, sunglasses, and a khaki ankle-length thoob, so he could blend in with the locals. He was glad he hadn’t shaved in days, giving him the beginnings of a beard like the men in the area wore.

  Caine paced back and forth, wondering what he should do with Kimberley Hustwait. He didn’t know which option carried more risk; going to her now or meeting her in the morning.

  He took a deep breath, and checked the tracking device he had placed in Kimberley’s hair. The tracer was so tiny she would likely not notice it. It was secured with a powerful glue that would take many washes to come loose. He had tracked her movements using an app on his satellite phone. After the interview she had returned to her home address, and had remained there all night. Caine figured she was as safe as he was for the time being.

  He was tired, and he knew he needed sleep. But the distant explosions, gunfire, helicopters and sirens made that impossible. He understood that the hotel was supposed to be one of the most secure locations in the city. Two entire floors were rented on a permanent basis by the U.S. Government. They were protected by Marines in civilian gear on a twenty-four seven rotation. But they couldn’t protect the occupants from every potential threat. And Caine wasn't used to trusting his safety to others.

  He was about to work through a series of exercises, when the satellite phone rang.

  Caine answered it immediately, but said nothing.

  “Caine?” It was Delbridge. He sounded frantic, afraid.

  “Delbridge? What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been compromised.” Caine heard gunshots echoing through the line. “Someone in the CIA is behind this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone in our government doesn’t want you to find that plane. Are you in the hotel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get out, now! A kill team is coming for you. Get out, and meet me at Taiz and Ring Road.”

  “You’re compromised too?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just leave! Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing!”

  The line went dead.

  Caine felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and the blood thunder in his temples.

  Outside he could hear men arguing in Arabic. He grabbed the AK-47, fitted his body armor, and slung his field pack over his back. Then stalked over to the window. He pulled back the charging handle on the rifle, loading the first round. Then he flipped the safety lever to the fire position. Craning his head, Caine snuck a look between the flimsy curtains. Several men scurried across the roof of a decrepit building across the street. They were no more than two-hundred feet distant.

  One was aiming an RPG-29 ‘Vampire’ rocket launcher, lining up the sites with Caine’s window.

  Without conscious thought, Caine squeezed the trigger and unloaded the full magazine. Thirty rounds of high-speed bullets lit up the muzzle of his AK. His barrage painted his attacker red, as meaty wounds exploded all over the man’s body.

  But before his target fell dead, the man’s fingers gripped the handle of the RPG. With his dying breath, he launched the grenade. The explosive projectile streaked between the two buildings.

  Caine had less than a second to duck back behind the wall.

  The deafening explosion made his ears ring. The air reverberated around him as the concussion wave hit. A fireball ignited nearb
y and dust clogged the air.

  Opening his eyes, Caine wondered why he wasn’t dead. His ears were still ringing. His room seemed mostly intact. The man had missed.

  Part of the concrete floor gave way and crumbled, creating a gaping void beneath him. Then another section fell away. His room was disintegrating around him.

  The rocket must have hit the floor below, he realized.

  Caine sprinted while the ground collapsed under his feet. He leapt for the door, just as the floor disappeared. He threw himself forward, his fingers barely finding purchase on the edge of the concrete slab that seconds ago had held his bed.

  He hung there for several seconds, as the dust cleared and the floors gave way below him. Three floors below had crumbled into rubble, no doubt crushing whoever had occupied the lower rooms. His pack still hung off his back, and the AK-47 remained strapped over his shoulder.

  The large concrete slab beneath him hung at a steep angle, propped up against the wall. Caine heard the building foundations groan. He knew he had only seconds before the entire building collapsed. He let go, dropped onto the slab, and slid thirty feet down until he hit the rubble below. He stumbled outside, just in time. The remains of the hotel disintegrated behind him. He coughed and lurched away, as a cloud of dust flew up from the rubble.

  Ejecting the empty banana shaped magazine from the AK, Caine slapped in another one. He pulled back on the charging handle. As he advanced into the street, he ignored the terrified stares of late night pedestrians. He kept his eyes on the roof of the building across from the destroyed hotel.

  Another man with an AK-47 of his own peered over the edge of the roof. Caine put a bullet in his head, killing him instantly. He squeezed the trigger for another rapid fire burst to deter anyone else up there from peering down. Then he darted down the street, and vanished into the crowds. He didn’t care that he carried an AK-47 openly. Half the people on the street were as armed as he was.

  Caine jogged down a dark alley, while wrapping the scarf around his head like a turban, leaving only his eyes showing. Then he pulled on the thoob, so he looked the part of a Yemeni man. As he marched ahead, he was careful not to trip or cut himself on the debris littering the alley’s floor. He stepped through a pack of chittering rats scavenging for food. The scent in the air was a mixture of cordite and raw sewage.

  He should have called in, but his instincts said it was better that everyone thought he was dead now. Plus, if Delbridge was correct, and there was a traitor inside the CIA, the Embassy was the last place he should go.

  He checked his satellite phone. He knew he should have dumped it, but without it he had no way of knowing where he was in this country. So he compromised. He used Google Maps to work out the best route to Taiz and Ring Road, and from there the best route to Kimberley Hustwait’s apartment. Then he removed the battery and SIM card, and kept walking.

  The meeting spot was a forty-minute walk. Caine kept in the shadows, wary of another ambush. This was easier than expected because few street lights worked. The dark streets were empty and devoid of crowds… fewer people were out and about in this part of town.

  He spotted Delbridge standing on the corner of the road, bathed in one of the few working lights. A line of blood ran across his forehead, and trickled down the side of his face. The CIA man looked concussed. The blow to the head had rattled him. That might have explained why he was standing in such an obvious position.

  Caine made a hissing noise, which immediately caught Delbridge’s attention.

  The two men made eye contact. A second later, two gunshots fired from the shadows.

  Two bloody holes opened in Delbridge’s chest.

  The CIA Station Head staggered for a moment, then fell to his knees.

  Caine readied the AK, and scanned the shadows across the street, looking for the shooter. He saw nothing.

  A van screeched across the road, stopped in front of Delbridge's corpse. The large vehicle blocked Caine’s view.

  Caine fired, but his shots ricocheted off the sides… the vehicle was armored.

  The van’s engine roared, and its tires squealed. It pulled away, and raced off into the darkness.

  Delbridge was nowhere to be seen. Whoever was in the armored van, they had taken his body with them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caine marched at a rapid pace through the war-torn city, taking the route he’d memorized to Kimberley’s apartment. His senses were buzzing, and he was hyperaware of his surroundings. Monochromatic sedans and four-wheel drives sped past him on the narrow streets. A group of men wearing thoobs and futa skirts swaggered by. Several women, garbed head to toe in black abaya, shuffled down a decrepit footpath. None paid him any mind.

  At one point, a Soviet Union era BTR-60 armored personnel carrier rumbled down the street. A Yemeni soldier manned the roof-mounted machine gun, but even he didn’t appear to notice Caine.

  Despite his success at blending in with the crowd, the feeling that he was being watched was unrelenting. He performed several surveillance detection routes. He made abrupt stops, pretending to tie the laces on his boots, or pausing to read a poster in Arabic. Each time he waited for someone in the crowd to reveal that they were watching him. But so far, no one aroused his suspicion.

  He picked up his pace, and finally arrived at Kimberley’s apartment. Her building was a rundown, five story apartment block made of old concrete. Caine picked the front lock in under a minute, then ascended the stairs until he reached the fifth floor. He found Kimberley’s apartment number, and pounded on the door with his fist. It was after midnight, and he doubted she would be expecting anyone at this hour. He wondered if she would answer.

  “Who is it?” she called from behind the locked door.

  “Matthew. Matthew Quinn.”

  “From the Embassy?”

  “Yes. Can I come in?”

  He heard fumbling with the lock. The door opened a fraction of an inch, held in place by a security chain.

  “What are you doing here, and at this hour?” she asked, glaring at him through the tiny space.

  “I need to speak to you, it’s urgent. But I can’t talk out here.”

  Her eyes widened as she took in the AK-47 strapped across his back, and the turban and thoob he was wearing. “I don’t think so.”

  She tried to slam the door in his face, but his boot was already blocking it. He knew he was scaring her, and he could ill afford to get on her bad side now. It was time to reveal more about who he really was. He had to build some trust between them.

  “Kimberley, please, listen. I’m not with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I’m with the CIA.”

  “I knew it,” she mumbled.

  “You’ve stumbled into a covert operation. I have to get you out of here right now. You’re not safe here. People are coming. Dangerous people.”

  “You look pretty dangerous right now,” she said, looking him up and down. “How do I know you’re not here to kill me?”

  “If I was, I would have shot you already. There’s no need to be subtle in this country.”

  In the distance, another explosion detonated.

  It sounded close.

  They both stared at each other for a moment, transfixed, as if waiting for a second bomb to fall on them.

  “Here,” he said, and passed her his pistol, grip first. “Take this. You can keep it pointed at me while we talk if it makes you feel better. But we do need to talk.”

  She nodded, took the weapon, and closed the door. He heard her unlatching the chain, then she opened it again and let him in. She held the pistol in her hand, but it hung in a loose grip by her side.

  The apartment was dark, lit only by candles. The tiny living quarters smelled of sweat and unwashed clothes. The stifling heat of the day was trapped inside, suggesting the space enjoyed little ventilation. He noticed a woman towards the back of the apartment in an abaya. She quickly covered her face, but not fast enough… Caine recognized her as the woman in the satellite imager
y. The Bedouin rider, traveling alone in the heart of the Empty Quarter.

  “What’s this about, Matthew?” Kimberly demanded.

  Caine nodded to the second woman. “Your friend here, she saw an airplane go down in the desert three and a half weeks ago. That plane contained highly classified material. Both the CIA and the Saudi military believe she has it now. Whatever it is, they're willing to kill to stop those secrets from getting out.”

  The desert woman spoke to Kimberley in rapid Arabic. Kimberley responded just as fluently. Caine tried to follow what they were saying. He could tell they were discussing who he was, a spy that might be dangerous. Kimberley didn’t seem to think he was the enemy. The rest was lost on him.

  Caine’s head jerked to the window, as several vehicles screeched to a sudden stop outside. He pushed past both women and peered through the grilled window at the street below. Men with AK-47s clambered out of three battered utility vehicles. One of them pointed to Kimberly's apartment block, and shouted to his comrades. Caine grabbed Kimberly by the arm, and pulled her to the side of the window. She peered down at the scene in the street.

  “Believe me now?” he muttered.

  “This could be a set up.” Kimberley countered.

  Caine grimaced. The Australian woman was suspicious. It would be difficult to convince her he was on her side, and right now he didn’t have time to argue. He could force them both to leave with him, but that strategy wouldn’t help him in the long run.

  “Fine. I’m going downstairs, stealing a car, and getting out of here. You can both come with me, or you can take your chances with those men outside.”

  He turned and took the stairs, descending only one floor. He waited only a minute before Kimberley and her friend followed. Kimberley carried a small backpack. When the desert woman pointed to Kimberly’s exposed face, she covered up with her own veil. Caine nodded when they reached him. He moved forward, his AK-47 out and ready. He heard the two women’s quiet footsteps on the stairs behind him.