Blowback

by Valerie Plame

Where the hell is your SUV, Sergei?

  She secured the pistol in her waistband and stepped out into full sun, heat rising off the pavement in waves. Tugged the brim of her navy blue baseball hat over her sunglasses, scanning the parking area and the surrounding hillsides. No sign of Sergei outside the restored gatehouse, the only entrance between otherwise impenetrable Byzantine walls.

  No Sergei anywhere in sight.

  Was it fitting that he’d chosen a Crusader redoubt, a last stronghold for the armies of the faithful as they prepared to invade the Holy Land and rid it of infidels?

  She walked quickly toward the gatehouse, sucking in a breath as she passed Sergei’s black Mercedes obscured between a touring van and a bright green BMW with bicycles mounted on the roof. As far as she could discern through the tinted windows, his vehicle was empty.

  • • •

  A light, warm breeze scuffed across the rocky outcropping where Pauk lay prone with his rifle behind a knobby pine. From his vantage point, roughly four hundred meters off the trail, and six hundred meters from the large, ornate window opening, he had a view of the main trail leading to the royal apartments. He’d watched the Russian bodyguard take point for a good half-kilometer while his boss huffed his way among ruins. When the bodyguard reached the royal gallery—several minutes ahead of his boss—he quickly scouted the various apartments before returning to the main gallery, clearly keeping a watchful eye.

  Making it easy for Pauk to choose his hide.

  When the Russian had finally reached the royal gallery, he headed straight for the ornate Queen’s Window—and Pauk almost pulled off a shot. Was the Russian stupid enough to choose the most open spot in these ruins for a clandestine meeting?

  But the Russian’s luck held this once—saved by the half-dozen painting students passing through with their easels. And when the Russian found no one waiting, he scurried back through the apartments to peer down the mountain and the trails, presumably looking for his associate.

  But now the artists were gone and the Russian had turned around again, and he was on his way back to the Queen’s Window. His bodyguard, taking cover with his pistol tucked ready inside his jacket, alternately tracked his boss and scrutinized the surrounding ruins and hills, his gaze crawling over Pauk more than once.

  Pauk’s long fingers moved unerringly along the scope of the Dragunov. A wasp hovered, darting toward his face. He remained oblivious even as a snake as long as his rifle slithered within arm’s reach.

  The Russian disappeared into one of the common rooms surrounding the gallery. Fifty paces until he reached the window and appeared within its carved frames. Pauk anticipated the moment the Russian would peek out at the view of the distant Mediterranean, a rippling sheet of blue—an irresistible vista.

  Through the precision scope, he saw the Russian’s shadow before he saw him. Saw his fist pressing possessively against the black leather bag he carried. Saw the Makarov in his other hand.

  He eased the scope upward until he had a bead between the Russian’s eyes.

  Energy coursed through Pauk, just grazing the tips of his fingers onto the trigger at the same instant the Russian tripped and stumbled out of sight.

  A distant volley of shots broke the hot stillness of the day, and Vanessa winced internally.

  Part of the exercise she’d seen on her way through the Turkish military zone?

  She stepped onto pavement, hesitating in front of a prominent sign displaying a map of accessible trails leading up and through the sprawling castle ruins—including the 732-meter summit and Prince John Tower. She remembered that the Queen’s Window was located in the middle ward, in the large gallery near the royal apartments. Although there were several spurs, a main trail crisscrossed the grounds, ruins, and restored sections, eventually traversing the high, formidable walls erected in the twelfth century.

  She stared up at the stone fortress; against the hard cobalt sky, the ramparts seemed to grow organically from the harsh, rocky hillside. She took a moment to grind the soles of her running shoes against granite to shed grime and then passed under the shadow of the parapets onto castle grounds. She moved quickly, but not so quickly that she would alarm the smattering of midweek visitors. The pistol pressed uncomfortably against her ribs.

  She picked up the pace, jogging lightly past the stables where crusading soldiers had garrisoned with their horses in the lower ward. She scanned the visible portion of the trail ahead: a group of college-age students, two elderly women setting up easels near a second gatehouse, and a heavyset man busily filming his sunburned wife or girlfriend. Vanessa had to cross another hundred meters of steepening grade before she’d reach the first buildings of the middle ward.

  • • •

  Pauk stretched long in his hide, viewing through the scope the ruins of what had once been royal apartments, fingers itchy. He had his target and the bodyguard to deal with now, and whomever else they were meeting. Of course, more tourists would amble up the path soon. He grunted, a rare expression of his impatience. Time to finish the job.

  And fate cooperated. The Russian lumbered toward the window. Pauk inhaled, then paused his breath and squeezed his finger gently . . .

  This time the Russian did not trip. The bullet hit him between the eyes, and he fell back against the blood-spattered stone pillar. The panicked bodyguard fired off a wild shot, and it went so wide, so high, Pauk didn’t even blink. He watched as the dead Russian—who had somehow remained eerily upright—crumpled to earth.

  • • •

  Echoing off rock, the ruler-slap report of a rifle split the air and Vanessa flinched.

  Long-range suppressed semiautomatic?

  And now she lengthened her stride so she was running hard uphill, passing the students, one of whom was pointing excitedly across the canyon to a military convoy truck. But Vanessa was positive that wasn’t the origin of the shot.

  As she approached the arched, shadowy entrance to the church she heard another shot—pistol this time. She stumbled on rough stones, almost tumbling down the half-dozen steps to the lower level. She managed to brace herself, but not before her ankle twisted and she sucked in a painful breath.

  More shots sounded, pistol again, three quick, tight explosions coming from nearby.

  She took a tentative step, and her ankle held her weight so she pushed her pace again, sucking in surprisingly dank, moldy air; the only sunlight was reaching thin fingers through crevices into the subterranean passage. She was confused by the mazelike ruins, but she thought she remembered this passage would lead to a stairway entrance up to the royal apartments.

  She turned a corner, almost colliding with three young tourists, murmuring quick apologies in Greek and Turkish as she left them behind.

  She heard voices, but the passage opened now and split, and she couldn’t remember which way led to the gallery and the window. But she dodged right instinctually and found herself between another tunnel-like passage and stone steps leading upward toward light. And suddenly she had her bearings—the gallery with the Queen’s Window was at the top.

  She slowed, stopping at the third step to keep her head out of sight. Feeling the butt of the FN Five-Seven, she waited for more shots. Almost a minute passed with nothing.

  Vanessa crawled to the top step, pressed close to the granite wall. Quickly, she peeked over the landing stone. She couldn’t see anything but the clear frame of the Queen’s Window. She inched higher and saw a sleeve and the edge of a jacket. A body slumped over against the stone floor. Male, facedown, dark hair matted with blood.

  Oh, God.

  A flash of motion caught her eye, and she recoiled back against stone. A second man, Sergei’s huge, muscled bodyguard, hunkered behind the thick wall framing the Queen’s Window. He was nosing his Sig to take his next shot. Apparently, his target was hiding somewhere in the low outcrop beyond the window.

  Pistol
in hand, Vanessa eyed the thick column to the right of the stairwell. It would provide her with protection from a sniper’s bullet and from Sergei’s bodyguard—she had no way of knowing if Olaf was dangerous or not.

  She took a breath and scrambled from the stair, across open stone flooring to the column. Now she was only a few meters from the body. No sign of life, the puddle of blood around him no reassurance. The dark muzzle of a gun almost hidden beneath his right sleeve.

  While she crouched, Sergei’s bodyguard turned to stare at her, wild-eyed. For a twitchy instant she thought he was going to shoot her—but then recognition flickered across his gray, dirt-stained face just as she saw the blood darkening his black shirtsleeve where he’d been hit. Vanessa raised her palms, gesturing no-threat. A volley of shots rang out—she and the bodyguard both recoiled—but it was distant fire, AK-47s, the Turks.

  Vanessa breathed again only after Olaf returned his focus to the harsh, rocky landscape, searching for the sniper. She stretched flat to reach the body. Avoiding the blood, she pulled the Makarov from between his fingers. His skin and the pistol both still warm. She straightened him enough to verify—Sergei Tarasov, with a single bullet hole punched between his eyes.

  She flashed on the image of a faded tattoo—and a dark wave of rage almost knocked her flat.

  It was her father’s voice, his internalized command—stay aware, stay alive, do your job—that brought her back. She unclenched her fists and went to work—hefting her pistol, rechecking the cartridge, and then snapping it fully loaded back into place.

  The sniper was out there right now, but why? Why was he still hanging around, still shooting after he’d eliminated his target? Unless he wasn’t positive he’d killed Sergei. Or unless he had orders to kill the bodyguard, too—eliminate witnesses—and get whatever Sergei carried.

  She rifled through Sergei’s pockets, left his keys and change, grabbed his wallet and passport, stuffed them into the pocket of her running jersey. Better if the Turkish authorities couldn’t identify him quickly.

  She saw the edge of a black leather bag caught under Sergei’s right arm. She tugged it free, searching hurriedly through the contents.

  “Nyet!” The Russian hissed at her. “No, nyet!” His eyes burned through her, but he stayed where he was. And she ignored him, sliding her fingers along the inside of the leather compartment. She found the flash drive, shoved that into a small key pocket inside the waistband of her pants. She’d take his burn phone and his BlackBerry, too.

  “Nyet, nyet!”

  She whispered back harshly, “Da, Olaf, da, da.”

  But that didn’t convince Olaf she wasn’t stealing. He reached out to stop her from taking what she needed, but she jerked away. He grabbed for her again, but any more argument was cut short by the crack of a long-range rifle, the invisible slice of a bullet racing past, and the sound of the shot ricocheting off stone. Swearing freely in multiple languages, Olaf swung around, returning fire wildly.

  Voices echoed up the mountain, a man calling out to someone in alarm. They wouldn’t be alone for long—either tourists would stumble on them or Turkish soldiers would be storming the castle as soon as they figured out this gunfight wasn’t part of their mock-war.

  Vanessa shoved Sergei’s Makarov across the rough floor toward Olaf—he needed all the rounds he could get. She was already crawling away from Sergei’s body, heading for an opening beyond the window, a seam where the walls had eroded to expose the craggy hillside beyond.

  She stared out through the seam, her FN Five-Seven solid in her grip. Sweat ran from her forehead, stinging her eyes. She tried to spot the sniper’s hide, but no sudden movements, no flash or glare, gave away his position.

  But she could feel him still out there—she could feel the Chechen.

  Another volley of shots rang out from the next hillside, and her finger twitched against the pistol’s trigger. From across a canyon, a single blast echoed loud as a cannon, followed by a second and then a third—part of the military drill. Each blast so powerful it made her eardrums vibrate.

  But it wasn’t just the Chechen who concerned her—she had to consider Olaf completely unpredictable, but given that they were both being fired at, she had to assume that for the moment they were on the same side. And then there were the Turks and the certainty of an international debacle if she didn’t get away clean. With Sergei’s intel. As her mind raced, she crawled steadily toward the edge of the gallery. Crouched to launch herself across an open space, she heard the distinctive whack of the rifle and a loud grunt from Olaf. She jerked around in time to see the impact push him back. Spitting expletives in Russian—he clamped his left hand over his right shoulder. He was hit but still alive.

  And this time, through an open frame in the ruins, Vanessa had seen the flash of sun against metal on the hillside—an outcropping marked by a scrub oak. Six hundred meters away, give or take. Way out of range for her pistol or Olaf’s to be effective.

  She froze for a second, knowing she had the flash drive with Sergei’s intel safely tucked inside her pocket—the only reason she’d come here. If she left now, while the bodyguard still had bullets left, she could probably make it down the hill to her car.

  She wasn’t a soldier, and she wasn’t special ops. But that didn’t matter right now, because she knew she’d already made her decision when she heard the first sniper shot.

  He’d killed two of her assets—maybe dozens of other targets. She was going after the Chechen.

  She had one chance to get around behind him, upwind, uphill, with at most a hundred meters between them—close enough to take her shot. She hissed to Olaf, caught his attention, and communicated her intentions with hand signals. Grimacing in pain, he managed to nod. He’d switched pistols, and now he wielded Sergei’s Makarov. When Vanessa counted off with her fingers, he fired a wild round toward the rocks. She launched herself low across the clearing.

  For the next forty meters, she had cover as she ran through the ruins of the barracks. She scared the hell out of a young couple as she darted past, the Five-Seven in hand, pressed hot to her belly under the hem of her running jersey.

  Another twenty-five meters and she reached the base of the fortress walls. On top ran a trail about eight meters wide, where sentries had stood guard a thousand years ago. Once she made it to the top, she would be high enough to get a good bead on the Chechen with her pistol. Just then she heard the bark of Olaf’s pistol—keeping the Chechen busy.

  She took the restored staircase, and she was breathing hard by the time she reached the rampart. She crouched, turning slowly, getting her bearings. From here, the Queen’s Window was just southeast of her—and the Chechen’s hide was due west. She ran half-hunched along the crest of the rampart walls until she estimated she was about fifty meters beyond the Chechen—a distance shot easily accomplished with her Five-Seven. She could still see the Queen’s Window, but from the outside now, and she thought she caught the dark stain of Olaf’s shadow.

  She took a moment to catch her breath and steady herself, and then she raised up on her haunches to see over the rough edge of the wall. She’d aced firearms at the Farm, but it was the endless hunting trips with her father and her brother that had truly honed her skill with guns. But she’d never hunted a human until now.

  Should she be overwhelmed by the immensity of her decision to go after him? Instead, she felt oddly light and totally focused, almost machinelike. No emotions. She had a job to do.

  And now she had taken the high ground over the Chechen. She settled in, almost completely sheltered behind the thick wall of the rampart. She stared out toward the outcropping where she gauged she’d seen the flash. She blinked sweat from her eyes and slowed her breathing. Gripping the Five-Seven in both hands, the fleshy part of her index finger on the trigger, biceps pressed against stone for stability.

  She found the lonely pine tree, crept her finger back agai
nst the trigger, and sighted a target a few paces beyond the visibly gnarled roots. Was she looking at the tree’s shadow?

  Not unless it could move.

  She had the Chechen.

  Just then she heard the shot, saw the flash from the hide as he took another shot at Olaf. Her sights aimed at the top of the Chechen’s head to allow for bullet drop—her best guess of how he’d positioned himself—she fired, ready for the pistol’s jump.

  Shit. Without taking her eyes from her target, she brought the Five-Seven carefully back down. Had she hit him? She couldn’t tell. But just as she fired again, she caught the ripple of motion when he rolled.

  She felt his eyes scanning for her before she heard the tight, echoing crack of his shot.

  She dropped fast, hitting rock so hard pain knifed through her left bicep.

  She inched up again, desperate not to lose him now, always sighting with the Five-Seven. For a few seconds nothing. Then she caught a blur of motion about ten meters below the hide. He was on the move down the hill, roughly sixty meters from her.

  She tracked him with the Five-Seven, aiming at his head, taking her last shot.

  Her pistol jumped. He stumbled, going down on one knee—for that instant, she prayed he was dead.

  But he lumbered up and kept moving, unsteady on both feet, disappearing behind rock.

  She thought she’d hit him, but she couldn’t be certain, and now he was gone. The bitter taste of disappointment filled her mouth—she should have killed the motherfucker; this had been her chance.

  He won. She lost.

  Now her body was flooded with new purpose. She had to get out of there. Turkish soldiers were probably already on their way up. If they arrested her, she was fucked. She was a NOC—no government, not even her own, would protect her. She had to get Sergei’s intel back to Headquarters.

  She pushed her pistol inside her waistband. Her left arm ached like hell, and for the first time she realized she’d been hit—blood stained the sleeve of her jersey. She pulled her cap low on her forehead and peeled off her jersey, wrapping it tightly, painfully around the wound. As far as she could tell her T-shirt was clean, no blood. No time to do more until she was in the VW and out of there.