Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  Jarvis squatted in front of her, just out of range should she kick her legs up. His elbow rested on one knee, helping keep the gun aimed at her. “What was your target?” He didn’t need to explain or to point at the dead man. Her face dissolved into understanding, though no less vehemently hateful.

  “I see. You are a lazy American policeman. A detective maybe, thinking you have cracked a big case, yes?” She almost spit while saying ‘American.’ “There is nothing you can do. It is too late.” She laughed and even though it was forced and fake it gave Jarvis a chill. He shot her in the right thigh. The retort of the gun was clean and quick and immediately absorbed by the ratty carpet and ancient couch. The woman sucked in her breath and paused in shock, then let out a cry and a string of epithets in Farsi. He recognized about half the words. He’d missed any arteries and the bullet had entered the meaty part of her leg. It would hurt like hell but there wouldn’t be much blood. She would die of infection in a day or so if not treated. He pointed the gun at the middle of her face.

  “Quiet. It’ll hurt but you’ll be fine if you get to a doctor in the next hour or so.” He was surprised at how quickly she stifled any sobs. Anger beat out her pain.

  “What…what do you want?”

  “I’ll ask again – who was the target?” This time he did nod toward Mohan. Her eyes did not follow.

  “We did not…” She winced. It did hurt, a lot. “I did not have…I was not told where yet.”

  Jarvis nodded. “I need an antidote.” Now she looked across at Mohan. “No, not for him.” He almost laughed. “Who sends it to you? Where does it come from?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I will not tell…wh…” Her leg convulsed. The bullet might be touching some nerves.

  Jarvis pointed the gun at her other leg. “I knew Mohan, from Afghanistan. He’s an idiot, but not a killer.” This got her attention and she peered at Jarvis. “You were his handler. You know where the poison is coming from.”

  She wasn’t listening to his questions any more. “How did you know this man? From where did you meet Mohan?” It seemed very important to her, enough to ignore the historical evidence suggesting he would not hesitate to shoot her in the other leg.

  “I met him briefly when he was about to help some of his pals behead a friend of mine.”

  At this the woman’s face registered the recognition that had eluded her before. She moved faster than he would have guessed she could. She was up and out of the chair, a small knife pulled from somewhere near her waist, before Jarvis could come out of his crouching position. He shot her in the throat, almost randomly, as he angled the gun up and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through her esophagus and blood splattered on her shirt and behind her. Momentum took her a few feet toward Jarvis and he spun, still crouching, out of her way. She fell to the ground, both hands clutching at her throat and neck. The knife remained in her right hand and cut into her cheek but the pain went unregistered. She hit the ground and rolled onto her back. Jarvis stood and leaned over her. She stared at him as blood poured onto the filthy carpet.

  “Tell me how you know me. Who’s behind this?”

  She mouthed words but the only sounds were gurgling. There was a rush of blood out her mouth and she drew in half a breath. She tried to speak again. Her voice was even rougher, the words more accented, but they were clear.

  “Murderer…murderer of my son, my Hakimi…murderer…” She died with the last syllable.

  It was the fifth death in forty-eight hours Jarvis had watched; sixth if the woman at the grocery store counted. He figured she did. Jarvis pulled out his cell phone to call the cops but waited. It would be a long day and night of explanations and he was sure there wasn’t a lot of time left. Instead, he unfolded the sheet he’d kept from the three he’d taken in Racine and looked at the names. There were seven. Two had red check marks next to them – one was Mohan’s. The check couldn’t mean they’d carried out their mission. He looked past the woman, blood still seeping into the carpet and looking more brown than red, at Mohan and the cylinder. The red checks meant the poison had been delivered. Five other people were waiting for their vials, and for their instructions. Instead of dialing 911, he called Timmons. He had a better chance explaining to Homeland Security why he was standing in yet another room with dead bodies.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Timmons didn’t seem surprised to hear from Jarvis or by the content of his story.

  “Yeah, I was pretty sure I’d hear from you. And it’d be after you’d done something I wouldn’t like.” Timmons was comfortable letting dead air fill the connection. So was Jarvis.

  “The sheets you have with names, the ones with red ticks are the people who’ve already received vials of poison. Maybe you should focus on them, even though I think most have gone underground by now.”

  Timmons laughed, real humor infusing it. “You’ve made enough noise that they all know they might be compromised, unless maybe the guy in Racine didn’t have enough time to reach them before you popped him.” He paused. “How many on the sheet you have are marked in red?”

  This caught Jarvis by surprise. Timmons cleared it up for him. “We spoke to Rini. Three sheets, and I’ve only got two.”

  “You guys are thorough.” He looked down at his sheet. “Two with red, though one is…out of commission. Five others with no checks. I’ll fax a copy.”

  “Thanks. And come on back. LA misses you.”

  Jarvis let the silence comfortably creep back in. There wasn’t much he could do that would speed things up for Homeland Security. Getting to everyone on the list would take some time, and what he’d already done may have bought some more time by scaring the do-ers. Martyrs or misguided zealots or ideological morons, whatever they were, they would chill for a while. But it wouldn’t stop there. He thought of the woman’s dying words and Mohan’s connection to Jarvis’s past. Brin lying in a hospital bed. It was too late to find an antidote, at least one nearby. Brin would pull through on his own or Brin would die. The only thing Jarvis could do now was go to the source, to cut off the head.

  “I’ve got a little vacation time coming.”

  Timmons thought about that. “Private detectives’ benefits package includes paid time off nowadays?”

  “I’ve got a trip coming up.”

  Timmons thought quietly. “You know, Homeland Security only operates within the borders of the United States. We’ve got sister agencies that have, uh, broader reach, but for the most part we’re national only.” It wasn’t a threat or a suggestion. Just a fact.

  “On an unrelated note, I always travel with my passport.” Jarvis touched his back left pocket and felt the outline of the worn document he hadn’t used much in the last couple years but was always within arm’s reach. He started to do the mental calculations of a ticket, last-minute, for a very long flight. “I’ll give you a ring in a few days.”

  “You do that. And travel safely.” Timmons hung up and Jarvis headed back to the hotel to make some calls. Commercial flights into Karachi were limited given regional conditions. He needed to be more creative.

  He hadn’t packed for the desert so he walked a dozen blocks to a part of the Village that sold clothes other than black sweaters and pants and torn jeans. He picked out a few pairs of khakis, some good walking boots, several layers of sweaters, a light jacket to fend off the cool evenings, and several pairs of underwear. No one talked much about the real discomfort of sweating in 110 degree heat in Afghanistan. He found a decent duffel bag at an army surplus store. Walking among the gas masks, portable stoves, and laser sights, he fingered the camouflage outfits. Not a hint of nostalgia.

  Back at the hotel, he began to make calls. Dozens of “consulting companies” provided security in the region, some acting as semi-legitimate armed forces augmenting US efforts. Others were private armies protecting companies still doing business in Afghanistan or aid agencies trying to help the locals while not being killed themselves. The recruiters reached out to ex-armed
forces, offering good salaries, decent living conditions, and fewer rules than re-enlisting. Jarvis had never been tempted, but plenty former colleagues had. And one Colonel he’d served under had left the service a few years earlier and started his own company. He ran it like an arm of the military – boot camp training even for seasoned vets, strict rules of conduct, and zero tolerance for bullshit. Jarvis got him on his cell and didn’t have to spend more than thirty seconds catching up on the six years since they’d last spoken. The Colonel didn’t waste time – only the mission counted.

  “Lieutenant, good to hear your voice. You looking for some work?”

  Jarvis looked out his window at the park, dusk starting to settle and giving the city a false sense of calm. “No, sir. It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  Two minutes later, the Colonel was giving Jarvis a series of telephone numbers and codes. Jarvis hadn’t told him the details, just that he needed to get to Afghanistan and the mission, though private, was important. The Colonel’s voice was clipped, clear, and hard. He’d help get Jarvis in-country. He didn’t say anything more, but Jarvis knew if he needed anything else, he could make a call.

  “Thank you, sir. I hope we get to cross paths again soon.”

  “Son, you do what you need to do.” The line went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The commercial flight on Lufthansa from JFK to Frankfurt was $2600 for coach. The gate agent was a vet who recognized the look on Jarvis’ face and gave him an exit window seat. He looked slightly wistful handing Jarvis the boarding pass. A stint in the Gulf was more enticing than explaining to the fat woman next in line that she might have to buy two seats.

  Jarvis put his one bag in the overhead bin and only got up once to stretch his legs and pee before they reached cruising altitude. Eight hours later he landed in late morning fog in Germany. He went through uncrowded customs and passport control lines then took a shuttle to a remote terminal where the planes were unmarked except for numbers on the fuselage. He got in line behind a dozen men who ran the gamut from Central Casting mercenary to left-wing aid worker. He fit right in. A courteous but no-nonsense security guard – private, not employed by either the US or German aviation agencies, directed each man in line through a metal detector and toward a second guard who escorted them to a private area. It was more like boot camp induction than flight prep. When it was Jarvis’ turn, he went through the metal detector and then to his left, as directed. The guard took him to a bare space the size of a small doctor’s examination room and pointed at his clothes. Jarvis wordlessly stripped naked and let the guard do his business after snapping on a surgical glove. The man’s hands were cold.

  Apparently not concealing any Uzis in his nether parts, Jarvis was permitted into the waiting area where several dozen people gathered. Against the advice of the signs, half the men smoked and no one objected. Duffel bags were lined up by a door leading to the tarmac. Three armed security guards roamed the room, not randomly but according to a clear sequence. Another two were on the tarmac on either side of the plain white 767. Half an hour passed and a guard opened the sliding glass door to the outside. Without any rush or bustling that accompanies businessmen and tourists jostling to get on a plane, the fifty-some-odd group naturally formed a line and worked their way up the mobile staircase.

  The seats were less comfortable but much roomier than the commercial flight. There was no movie or hot meal service. All the travelers were used to government transport and quickly settled in for the seven-hour flight. Few people spoke and the guy next to Jarvis was asleep before the door closed. Jarvis waited until they were at cruising altitude and took a nap of just under an hour. No writing beforehand. He awoke refreshed and with a clear plan in mind. The guy to his left woke midway in the steep descent that felt like a Kamikaze attack – the angle of entry into Khandahar Airport was intended to minimize the amount of time the plane was potentially within reach of surface to air missiles. The g-forces felt familiar to Jarvis and put him in the right mindset. It was a the mentality of war – heavy with anticipation, even during the stretches of unrelenting boredom, everyone knowing that a break in the calm was never minor, never just a bump in the road. Most of the passengers were up and holding their bags before the plane came to a stop. Jarvis was the last off the plane.

  It was mid-morning and the sun had already baked away any coolness clinging to the ground from the evening. The tarmac was dry and dusty but as modern as any runway at LAX. The only differences were the rubble to the left that used to be the international terminal and the line of vehicles parked thirty feet from the plane. Two reinforced Humvees driven by security contractors, a government aid agency white van, two limos for the three men who’d sat in what passed for first class seats on the flight, and three taxis that looked like they’d crossed the dessert with Moses. All but the last taxi drove off. He wondered if the reason it stayed still was because it was waiting for him or was too dilapidated to take another breath and summon up the energy to move. It was the former. The driver got out with a creak of the door and waved as though Jarvis were a mile and a half away rather than fifteen steps. Jarvis pretended not to see, then not to recognize the driver, who took that as a sign to come around to the other side and almost jump up and down.

  “Jar-vees! Jar-vees! Over here! It is me!”

  Jarvis couldn’t resist the impulse to smile any longer. He bee-lined to the driver and took off his sunglasses. They clasped hands, then hugged.

  “Saleem, I see you got a new car.”

  The laugh was deep and real and was Jarvis’ true welcome to a country he loved and feared. Saleem took the bag from Jarvis and tossed it through the windowless back seat door. He yanked open the passenger door, metal fighting metal as if it were a battle for existence. The ancient leather smelled of every food, every type of smoke, and every soul Jarvis had experienced in his two years in Afghanistan. He felt at home and afraid.

  Saleem almost ran around to the driver’s side and had the car in gear before his door closed. If the speedometer had been working Jarvis could have confirmed his estimate they were going fifty miles per hour before they’d made it the forty feet to the gate. The taxi entered a surprisingly dense stream of traffic headed out to the highway and into the dessert. They dropped in behind a quickly moving group of vans, small trucks, and old Mercedes that was following three US military Humvees. Saleem whistled, fired questions, and updated Jarvis on what had happened since the last time they had seen one another almost eight years ago. It was music to Jarvis’ ears and he answered about one out of four questions, waiting for a pause in the monologue. He closed his eyes and breathed in, catching whiffs of diesel fuel, occasional animal smells as they passed a truck filled with chickens, and the unmistakable scent of war.

  “Jar-vees, don’t tell me you are here to fight some more the war? You are not mercenary!!!” Saleem laughed but there was an undercurrent of dead seriousness.

  Jarvis opened his eyes and turned to his friend. “No, no habib. I have some personal business.” This time Saleem’s laugh was undiluted.

  “That woman, Fallah, she who took your heart back then?” Fallah was an ancient prostitute who had crooked her finger at Jarvis many times when he was on leave and traveling the city of Khandahar with his friend. The first time he’d been disgusted, but by the twentieth it had become a running joke. She was probably no older than 50 but looked as though she were Methuselah’s older sister.

  There was silence and Saleem saw Jarvis’ business was serious. “Where will you stay, my friend? My home is open, you know this, but I think maybe your business must happen from somewhere else.”

  Jarvis reached across the seat and clasped the driver on the shoulder. “I’ll need your help getting around, but it would be better if I stayed at the Interconti.”

  Saleem watched the increasingly crowded road and nodded. They were quiet for a moment and Saleem kept his eyes on the road. Below the hubbub of the car and noise from passing vehicles
, he nodded again and whispered, “It is very bad here, my friend. Very bad for everyone, but very very bad for Americans. Please you be careful.” They rode in silence for a mile and then Saleem began catching him up on what his three children were studying in school and how his wife berated him for staying out too late but always had a warm dinner waiting for him. They pulled to the side of the road once to let a caravan of half a dozen Humvees whiz by. Army issue, but under private label. Jarvis knew if they hadn’t pulled over, the vehicles would have either pushed them out of the way or a “security consultant” riding in the lead car would have pointed a 50-caliber rifle at them and not waited more than a couple seconds to fire off a few rounds. Better safe than sorry. They were at the hotel twenty minutes later and parted warmly but with foreboding in the air around.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Intercontinental Hotel in Khandahar was where the war journalists stayed. It was also where the management of the US and European security firms lived when they were in Afghanistan overseeing the business operations of their private armies. In the old days, it was likely to house spies from allied countries and the few hostile ones with a more expansive travel budget. When Jarvis arrived, the lobby was filled mainly with dozens of men wearing cheap suits and too much cologne. They had nametags and paunches. A beautifully hand-written sign at the checkin desk welcomed the members of the International Congress on Infrastructure Redevelopment – Africa and Middle East Region. It could just as easily have read “Carpetbaggers and Country Rapers.” Jarvis checked in and was surprised that the reservation he’d made the day before actually existed. A porter three times Jarvis’ age took his bag to the room and Jarvis headed to the bar to find any foreign correspondents hanging around. Despite the movie cliché, it was the mostly likely place to find them. He crossed the lobby and walked under the wrought-iron arches giving entry to a hushed, carpeted, old-world bar that could have seated a hundred but held only three.