by Tony Bulmer
After a murmured affirmative, the comm’s screen fizzled into blackness.
The admiral took a breath. “He can’t be trusted. You know that Jack, don’t you?”
Jack Senegar considered this for a slow moment then said, “We have his word as a gentleman don’t we?”
The admiral gave Senegar the hard eye. “There hasn’t been a gentleman’s war in a hundred years laddie. You think that the word of that mongrel Faz Huq is worth a damned thing?”
“I am certain that it isn’t, but we will send the girl and a small team, then we have all bases covered.”
“Are you sure that is wise? That girl of mine has a reputation. We could be looking at a bloodbath, heavy garnished with the kind of political incident that will throw both our careers on the bonfire—you up for that kind of challenge Jack?”
Jack Senegar smiled. “Born ready and you know it. Now break out the scotch.”
57
The Grumman C-2 Greyhound circled the outskirts of Islamabad. A jumble of concrete suburbs stretched endlessly. Minarets rose like daggers, reaching to the heavens for divine guidance. Air turbulence rising up from the jagged valley buffeted the C-2, lifting it like a toy, then spitefully casting it down into a churning void. Karyn chewed gum and adjusted her sunglasses. The twin-engined cargo plane was a rough rider compared to the Agencies Gulfstream jets. But this wasn’t some Agency junket to hang with the cocktail-hour colonials; this was a deep reach into the badlands of one of the most murderously unstable provinces of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. There was no telling what horrors lay in the deep, secluded hinterland of this Janus faced world. She had wanted to run the operation solo of course, but Senegar had nixed that idea from the outset. He insisted she take a close support team from SOG. The decision rankled; this was going to be an ugly and dangerous job, the list of things that could go wrong, almost without end. If the operation flipped out of control it made sense to have as few people involved as possible. Besides, what use would a five man back up team be against the collective might of the ISI and their mountain allies? If General Faz Huq felt so inclined, he could take out the tiny C-2 with a single poisoned word. No bodies would be found, no wreckage either. In the world of clandestine operations their deaths would go unheralded. They wouldn’t receive a mention on even the most jingoistic cable news channel. They would die unsung, forgotten, whilst the ugly world of International politics oozed forwards, searching for fresh victims.
Karyn glanced out the window. The plane was hemmed in now, by vast snowcapped mountains—the Himalayas, the Hindu Kush and the Karakoram ranges, rising jagged and untamed into the far distance. The land below had a strange, twisted beauty—ice-melt-rivers snaking through endless scrub decked canyons; untamed architecture peering wild and anemic from wooded slopes.
A breath defying succession of mountain valleys flipped by, twisting and conspiring together in a web of staggering complexity. The C-2 flew onwards, casting its fleeting shadow. Below, lakeside vistas stretched, blue and enticing, whilst ugly dust-clogged highways rampaged, without destination or meaning. Karyn drew a slow breath. The enemy were here; philosophical, ideological and cultural demagogues, naysayers to every civilized value of freedom justice and democracy. This was a land governed by dark, vengeful hearts, motivated by a conspiracy of hate; a land where the cold, eternal fate of the outsider was sealed by the swift and merciless dictates of the clan.
The C-2 was travelling deeper into the wilds of rural Pakistan now; the dark realm of the mountain men stretching endlessly for mile after untenable mile. It might take months, years or even an entire lifetime to walk out of this country on foot. The landing light buzzed green. The plane began a steep circling descent and then all at once, from behind a ridge of jagged foothills, a quite astonishing sight slipped into view. A chateau in the French style, standing resplendent in the most alien of environments; looking as though it had been transported brick by brick from the Loire valley.
Karyn spoke to her back up team through her headset mic. “Form up, loose. No raised pulses. And don’t forget to bug-eye the horizon, we could be in for any kind of anything with this one. The SOG operators called a hoorah in unison and the heavy clatter of automatic weapons being jacked for action sounded through the cramped cabin. The plane was coming down fast now, almost too fast. The pilot was obviously a veteran of East Asian landings, the kind of trigger-happy paradise where the locals could launch anything from .50cal to an RPG at any visitors they took a dislike to.
The plane made a heavy-bouncing short runway landing and began burning rubber, as the pilot dumped the thrust and switched the variable pitch propellers into a fast-cycling reverse thrust. The hatch was open even before the plane had stopped. The SOG team fanned out across the landing strip, their weapons high and ready. The C-2 was already at the far end of the strip, circling back, readying for a fast powered take-off.
Karyn adjusted her sunglasses and took a look down the landing strip towards the chateau. She could hear the throb of insects almost above the roar of the C-2’s engines. The air was heavy with humidity, and the thick, pulsing scent of monsoon drenched grasslands. Already, the storm clouds were building in the West. The heavy monsoon rains were already riding in from the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal. There would be no time for niceties. They would have to make the deal and head out—gain fast altitude, and ride high over the top of the storm. It would be a close run thing. If they didn’t time it just right, the storm would catch them in its grip. Karyn chomped her gum impatiently. She didn’t much fancy riding through the eye of a monsoon storm, in a tiny two-engined turboprop. She peered up the landing strip with narrow eyes. A convoy of Toyota pick-ups were careering towards them at high speed, how many exactly was difficult to say, but it looked like a dozen at least, each one of them packed to the gills with black-turbaned gunmen.
Karyn sighed. She kept her SIG in its holster for the sake of détente, but hung an M68 fragmentation grenade on her vest, it made and attractive brooch and sent a powerful message—I come in peace, yet prepared for war. She chewed gum. Two, maybe three beats later the ragged convoy of pickups were upon them. They didn’t form up, didn’t play tactics of any kind, just screeched to a halt in the middle of the airstrip and allowed their ragged cargo of gun wielding desperados to dismount. It was an ugly scene—every member of the wild-eyed gang surging forwards quickly, unceremoniously, swamping her security detail.
The mob gathered around her, encircled her. All of them jabbering unintelligibly and thrusting their battered Chinese style AK-47s in her face. Karyn spat her gum. They ebbed backwards momentarily, before the chattering amped ever louder. Karyn figured that if she flipped the M68 now, the gates of hell would be busy for the rest of the long evening, at the very least. The chug of a heavy-engined vehicle approaching at a slow crawl interrupted her thought.
The babbling crowd fell silent and parted like the Red Sea. There amongst the shambolic mob, stood a glistening black limousine that looked like it had driven straight out of the 1930s. A white uniformed figure rose up in the limousine, and stood, surveying the scene, as flunkies busily opened the door of the vehicle, then drifted reverently backwards, as though this great white figure was about to offer a sacred benediction to all present.
Karyn stepped forwards, moving unimpeded through the savage crowd. Without even looking, she knew that every member of her support team had been overwhelmed. She was alone and outnumbered. Cast adrift amongst a sea of hostile faces. She stepped close to the car, looked up at the white uniformed figure and made a perfunctory introduction.
General Faz Huq peered down at her, his tan, overfed countenance showing signs of damage. At last he said, “A woman? Jack Senegar head of the Central Intelligence Agency would insult me by sending a woman?” He paused, stared down at Karyn several seconds more, then said, “Wait—do I know you?”
“You do now. Where’s Mrs. Whitaker?”
“The general paused again, wagged his finger at her and said,
“I have a very good memory for faces, Ms. Kane. We have definitely met before. Tell me, have you been to Afghanistan before?”
Karyn felt her temples pulse, felt the thin scar above her left eyebrow rise out of her flesh. Yes, she had been to Afghanistan before, but that was not where she had first seen the general. He had been there in North Waziristan when the bayonet stuck in her temple. He had been running with the Taliban, helping them, guiding them, betraying the Special Ops CIA team involved in Operation Ascension.
The deep cover strike into the tribal heartlands of Pakistan had been a disaster from the get go. The plan to punish the insurgent elements behind the Camp Chapman attack was over extended and undersupplied, recon was a shambles. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong—and then there was the ambush. The treacherous attack that nearly killed her—and General Faz Huq had been the man behind it.
He remembered. And yet he didn’t remember. Either way she had him now. She had the rat so close, she could blow his brains through the top of his head—splash his ugly looking carcass all over that fancy limousine of his—only one problem—mission parameters. She was here for the Whitaker woman. She was going to have to let the past slide—for the moment.
Karyn took a quick look at the limousine and said 1938 Maybach SW 38.
The general beamed with delight. “You are a car fan Ms. Kane.”
“Adolph Hitler had one just like it, didn’t he?”
The general beamed wider still, “And a student of history too. A sound understanding of the past gives us intelligence of what the future might bring, don’t you agree, Ms. Kane?”
Karyn sniffed. “I would love to shoot the breeze with you General, but we are kind of pressed for time. I am sure you understand.”
The general pantomimed a pout. “You disappoint me Ms Kane. I was hoping you could join me for tea and cakes? One so rarely enjoys civilized company in these parts.
“You surprise me General. A man of your stature must have all kinds of interesting guests. Speaking of which, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“Ah yes, the matter at hand. The general turned and snapped his fingers. Flunkies bowed and scurried. “I must apologize in advance for Mrs. Whitaker’s…condition. But I fear the fragile American constitution is far from suited to the rigors of our quite unique climate. I fear the poor lady was quite overcome with the stresses of her ordeal.”
The black turbaned flunkies pushed Lauren Whitaker through the burgeoning crowd. She was slumped in a wheelchair. She looked battered and emaciated. The skin on her face drawn so tight she almost looked unrecognizable as the woman Karyn had escorted to the Tao funeral just two weeks previously.
Karyn’s eyebrows rose over the top of her sunglasses. “She looks drugged.”
“A mild sedative to calm the ladies nerves.”
“Uhuh.” With the deal about to close Karyn wasn’t going to argue. Frankly, it was a miracle that Lauren Whitaker was alive at all.
The general leaned forward. “And tell me Ms. Kane what did you bring me?”
Karyn pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I was going to bring you a bottle of booze. Then I remembered it was unIslamic, so naturally I didn’t want to cause offence.”
The general pulled a sour face. “That is most unfavorable news Ms. Kane.
But what of the crew of the Maharashtra?”
“They will be flying in to Benazir Bhutto International Airport in time for evening prayers.” Karyn signaled to the pilot of the C-2. He throttled up the engines and began rolling towards them. Karyn bent forwards, peered at Lauren Whitaker, stroked her head very gently and whispered, “Everything is going to be all right.”
Lauren Whitaker’s eyelids fluttered. Her pupils were tiny pinpricks, floating on a sea of opium. The plane was closing now, getting nearer with every passing second. As the plane approached, the mob melted backwards, distancing themselves fearfully from the scything propellers.
Karyn allowed her back up team to help the injured woman out of the wheel chair. She clutched weakly at her saviors as they drew her thin arms around their necks.
As she rose Lauren Whitaker had a sudden moment of lucidity. She shrieked, raised a shaky finger, and pointed at the young man pushing the wheel chair. “It was him, he did it. He was the one who kidnapped me.”
The young man gave her a vicious look and uttered a curse that was lost to the beat of the C-2s engines. But he was doing something else now too, reaching inside the belt of his pants, to pull out a battered looking Russian made automatic.
Karyn caught the move just as soon as he made it. She stepped in quick, and caught him mid draw. She snapped hold of his wrist and struck him fast and hard beneath the chin. As he toppled backwards he got off three fast shots, before Karyn wrenched the automatic out of his hand. The gun clattered onto the floor. As Karyn turned out of the defensive move, the very next thing that she saw was the general raging towards her with a giant gold-plated show gun pointing directly at her. He fired. The hot power of the muzzle-flash tore past her with lethal force. Bullets cut the air.
The young man was on the ground, holding his chest. He was dead for sure, at least it seemed that way. The plane was close now, the pilot signaling furiously as the back-up squad loaded Lauren Whitaker aboard. The general stood incandescent, the smoking gun clutched tightly in his hand. Rising above the man he had just shot. The general was staring at her with strange recognition. She had to go, and go now. In the propeller slipstream, there was no room for words. Karyn flipped the general a salute and headed out. She didn’t look back.
58
Rockefeller Plaza NYC
The call came flagged as an out of area number from a private caller, which was always a sign that whoever was calling was someone that she didn’t want to talk to. As Erin hurried across Rockefeller Plaza, she popped the answer button anyway on the chance she might be wrong. A thin voice whispered down the line, telling her something that she couldn’t quite hear. Erin pulled a face, held her phone away from her at arms length and snapped, “Listen here jackass, I don’t know how you got your pervert hands on this number, but you just made mistake one. You call this number again—like ever, and you will have a team of Federal Agents cuffing you down on the floor of your squalid little crib, where ever that might be.”
The voice became quickly flustered. “No—it’s me, don’t hang up, please I—”
Erin frowned. The voice sounded strangely familiar now, but she still couldn’t place it. “Who is this?” She demanded.
“I would rather not say—but I have some information—very important information regarding a matter of national security.” The voice wavered, paused for dramatic effect, then whispered conspiratorially. “It concerns one of your guests on the show.”
“Just a second. I know who this is—”
“Please, no names, I beg of you. My life is in grave danger for even calling you like this.”
Erin pulled a face. She was walking across the lobby now, heading towards the lifts. Her voice echoed in the art deco austerity, so she held the phone closer to her mouth. The lift was crowded, but not quite full to capacity. Busy with her phone, she hardly noticed as the chauffeur stepped in behind her, just moments before the doors closed. He was neatly dressed. He moved to the back of the lift and coalesced. Standing in a relaxed pose as though he were looking at the ceiling. But all the time his cold, dark eyes held steady on Erin. His eyes were hard and cruel. They ate into the vulnerable flesh where her skull met her spine.
The lift rose through the floors with frightening speed. Erin scrolled through her text messages her thumb speedily dismissing and deleting as she went. But with every keystroke she made, the chime of inbox deliveries began to draw the looks of her fellow passengers. An introductory snatch of Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, announced the arrival of a special missive from Hud’s Helman, the message read—Come see the new studio on 70th. Erin frowned. Strange. They were riding into the biggest news night of the decade, with a whole studio full o
f unscheduled guests and the Hudster was looking to flaunt his new-found prowess as a commercial realtor? She deep sighed and jammed her phone into her purse. Maybe five minutes tops, then she would call time on his antics. Big-bucks braggadocio grated on her nerves at the best of times, but today, when they had to script together whole new schedule for the show?
59
New Jersey Air Freight Terminal
The International Transshipment Customs Yard at New Jersey Air Freight Terminal was the busiest in the world. The ocean of brightly hued shipping containers stretched almost as far as the eye could see. In this vast, anonymous world of post-industrial sprawl, the storm fenced yards of the international logistics corporations stockpiled the ingredients for the making of modern America.
Highly mechanized, the great beasts of the logistics industry toiled day and night, caged into endless subservience within their vast compounds. Heavy cranes and gantry loaders, forklifts and semi-trailers, swarming endlessly amongst the vast maze of high-stacked shipping containers. Human overseers provided casual oversight from the glow of their computer monitors. This was the big world that couldn’t be stopped, the voracious frontline of international capitalism. With every unit moved, share prices ticked upwards and the computers of the New Jersey Fedwire building transferred the billion dollar profits and payments globally, in fractions of a nanosecond.
The pulsing heart of world trade, the International Transshipment Customs Yard was served by the arteries of road and rail and sea and air. Throbbing with the energy of ceaseless industry, this vast repository of trade processed thousands of arrivals and departures every hour, millions every day. The surge of business was ceaseless and ongoing.
No one paid much attention to the flight arriving from Frankfurt, Germany. It was a flight like many others, a mixed cargo of technological hardware and Industrial components. A fragmented cargo such as this, often contained a hundred thousand packages or more, all of them containing the kind of components it would take a team of computer scientists many months to categorize. Unsurprisingly, assessment of goods for customs purposes was a complex and highly involved process. Customs dockets posed endless questions and the import and export of controlled goods was governed by a thick list of highly complex legislation. Every item for import or export needed to be accompanied by legally mandated paperwork. But most often, the legally required transshipment label was no help whatsoever. The determined criminal mind could quite easily use a ready mix of vagueness, obfuscation and fraud to disguise the nature of almost any product.