Deadlock

by Iris Johansen

  "You know what we're supposed to do when we run into anything unusual. We'll come back as soon as we run into the escort. This could be a trap."

  "And it could be a hit-and-run by those son-of-a-bitchin' bandits or Taliban. If our guys are hurt, they could bleed to death before we can get back to them." He grabbed his gun from the glove box and jumped to the ground. "Stay here. I'll check it out." He strode toward the overturned truck. "Call for help."

  If he was going to do it, then she couldn't let him go in alone. She grabbed her Glock and got out of the truck. "Be careful, dammit. Don't go barging in and-" She stopped as she saw the blood.

  A thin red stream was running toward them from behind the truck.

  She forgot about being careful. She was around the truck before Joel got there.

  "God in heaven," she whispered.

  Al was crumpled near the ditch. His head had been almost torn from his body by a barrage of bullets. Don was half under the truck as if he'd tried to get away from the attack. He hadn't succeeded. Bullet holes peppered his entire torso.

  "Butchers," Joel said huskily. "They didn't have a chance."

  Emily tore her gaze from the bodies. Bodies. So impersonal a word. These had been her friends and companions. "We can't do any¬thing for them. We have to get out of here."

  He didn't move. "Sons of bitches."

  Emily grabbed him by the arm. "We have to leave. Now. They could still be-"

  "And they are." She whirled to see a tall, loose-limbed man with sandy hair coming toward her, an AK-47 cradled casually in the crook of his arm. "Don't lift your guns. This weapon could cut you in two before either of you could press the trigger."

  "You killed them?" She stared at him in bewildered horror. "Why? If you wanted anything in the truck, they would have let you have it. Those are our orders. We're not supposed to fight to protect those ar¬tifacts."

  "But, love, I needed a distraction." He raised his thick sandy brows. "How else could I be sure to engage your attention?"

  His voice was smooth, casual, and had a faint Australian accent. In comparison, his words were shockingly ugly and cold. "Now lay your guns down on the ground. Very carefully."

  Emily hesitated. "Do it, Joel." She put her gun down.

  Joel didn't move for an instant, then reluctantly laid his gun down, too.

  "Very smart." The Australian lifted his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. "Time to check your cargo. Stand very still while we do it, and you may live for a while longer."

  "Bastard," Joel said. "You killed them in cold blood."

  "Of course. It's always best to keep a cool head when violence is involved." He glanced at the six men who had streamed down from the hill. "Borg, be quick about it. I want to know in the next five minutes." He turned back to Joel. "If you'd been a little cooler, we might have lost you. I saw the lady trying to make you stay in the truck. If you'd been less emotionally involved, you could have-"

  "It wasn't his fault," Emily interrupted. "I would probably have done the same thing."

  "You're defending him even in these circumstances? You must be very good friends. I can't tell you how happy that makes me."

  Emily was watching his men carelessly tossing artifacts out of the back of the truck. She flinched as a three-foot-high vase broke. "Tell me what you're looking for. You don't have to destroy every¬thing."

  "How devoted you are to doing your job. Preserve and protect."

  "That's right." She had to figure a way to get out of this. The sit¬uation was too dangerous to make mistakes. "Let me protect the rest of these artifacts. Tell me what you want."

  "I will if we don't find it." He called, "Borg?"

  "It's not here, Staunton," A short, burly man with thinning brown hair jumped to the ground and motioned to the other men to leave the truck. "I thought maybe in the vase, but it wasn't there either."

  "Look, there wasn't anything valuable in this museum," Emily said. "If anyone told you there was, they lied."

  "I was told there was a very valuable item, and my source is very reliable." He shook his head. "Which means that you're lying."

  "I have no reason to lie. I told you, our orders are to give up any artifacts if it means risking personnel. What are you looking for?"

  He tilted his head and studied her expression. "Zelov's hammer."

  "What?"

  "Maybe you don't recognize it by its name. But I'm sure you'd recognize the treasure hidden in the handle. You're an expert in Rus¬sian artifacts. Was it too tempting for you to give up?"

  "We don't know what the hell you're talking about," Joel said. "There weren't any tools on display at the museum. Certainly none with any hidden compartments."

  "No tools at all?"

  "There were used gardening tools in the cellar of the museum," Emily said. "Go check those out."

  "I will," Staunton said. "You're being very cooperative. I'm im¬pressed."

  "Then let Joel leave. You don't have to keep both of us as hostages." Joel began to curse. "No way."

  "He doesn't like the idea," Staunton said. "Neither do I." He smiled. "But I do like the idea of getting out of here. We've run out of time." He turned away. "I'll call the helicopter. Bring them."

  Borg was coming toward them. Emily tensed. Going anywhere with these murderers might be a death sentence. She had no choice but to make a move.

  Her gun that she'd dropped at Staunton's order.

  She fell to the ground, reaching for it.

  "Oh no, bitch." Borg swung viciously, and the stock of his rifle struck her in the temple. Darkness.

  "WAKE UP. I'M GETTING IMPATIENT."

  Emily tried to open her eyes, but the pain was too great.

  "Wake up!" She was lifted by her shoulders and slammed against the wall.

  Her eyes flew open.

  "That's better." Staunton was standing before her. "I thought you might be playing possum. I've actually been very lenient, but it's time we got down to business. My employer wants answers and isn't at all pleased with me."

  Australian accent, deadly words.

  Don andAl lying butchered by the side of the road.

  The memory jarred her into full consciousness. Her gaze flew to Staunton's face. "You killed them."

  "We've already gone into that. You're beginning to bore me. We've already moved on." He shook his head. "And I've already lost time because you were stupid enough to try and go for that gun. I do hate waiting."

  She glanced around her. She appeared to be in a hut of some kind. "Where am I?"

  "The mountains. Actually quite near the stronghold of my good friends who used to rob and pillage this area." "Bandits."

  "Yes. Though Shafir Ali regards himself as a warlord. Unfortu¬nately, the national government doesn't agree. He's a little too bar¬baric for them."

  "Then I can see why you consider them friends. Why didn't you get them to rob our trucks?"

  "I couldn't trust them. But I had them do their part." "The killings?"

  "No, I did that, but of course I'll give them credit." "Or blame. You don't think the U.N. is going to sit still for this, do you?"

  "No, but this country is still barbaric in many ways. The civilized world doesn't always know how to handle barbarians, and the U.N. is nauseatingly civilized. There have been bandits wreaking destruction here for centuries. Very few are brought to justice because they know these mountains." He smiled. "I hate to disappoint you, but there won't be any cavalry coming to your rescue."

  "You're the one who will be disappointed. Westerners don't just disappear without a cry being raised."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Why? It's crazy that you-" She stopped as fear surged through her. "Where's Joel? What have you done with him?"

  "Nothing yet. He's just been placed in the hut next door. I thought it more convenient."

  "Convenient for what?"

  "Persuasion." He squatted beside her, and his hand wrapped around her throat. "For him. For you."
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  "Don't touch me." She moistened her lips. "I told you that I don't have what you want. Did you check the basement of the museum?"

  "Yes, we went immediately to search it. There was no hammer, though the other tools were of Russian make." His hand tightened on her throat. "A conspicuous absence, wouldn't you say?"

  "I thought they were garden tools. They appeared to have been used. They might be. There was nothing of value in that museum. You have to be wrong."

  "I could be. But my employer believes it was there before your ar¬rival. He said he was absolutely certain it was. That makes it necessary for me to make very sure. He said to explore every option… exten¬sively."

  "We don't know anything about any hammer."

  "You'll have to convince me." He drew even closer to her, his blue eyes glittering in his long face. "And I'm going to be very hard to con¬vince."

  "Use a lie detector. Give me truth drugs."

  "There are ways to beat both of them. I'm an old-fashioned man. I believe traditional methods are best." His voice was soft. "Shall I tell you what I'm going to do? I'm going to take your friend Joel Levy and hurt him beyond your ability to imagine. When you think he's had enough, all you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

  Panic.

  "What big eyes you have," Staunton said. "You're frightened. It's an awesome responsibility to have the power to stop another's pain, isn't it? Tell me now, and we won't start it."

  "Why Joel?" she asked hoarsely. "Why not me?"

  "Your turn may come. I believe this will be much more effective. Besides, I've always found that torturing women has bad side effects. For some reason, it's regarded as particularly heinous and rouses opin¬ion against you. Seems unfair, doesn't it? Sexist. But if by chance you ever got free, I'd be hunted down without mercy. No, you'll tell me where it is after a few days of our persuading Levy."

  "I can't tell you," she said, agonized. "I don't know anything about it.

  "I almost believe you. But I have to be sure." He rose to his feet. "I'm going into Levy's hut now. Borg is waiting for me. Don't try to leave. There's a guard outside, and my bandit friends are camped a short distance from here in the hills." He drew a machete out of the holster at his hip. "I think I'll start on his fingers first. You'll be able to hear him screaming."

  "Don't do it. There's no sense to it. He doesn't know anything. I don't know anything. Please."

  "You're begging?"

  "Yes," she said unevenly. "Don't hurt him."

  He was staring at her. "You feel things with such intensity. What a delight you'd be to break. Begging is always satisfying, but it's not enough." He headed for the door. "If you're stubborn, we'll have to move on to the bigger stuff soon. Then I'll bring you in to watch."

  "But we don't know anything."

  He was gone.

  Dear God in heaven. Panic was flooding through her. It was a nightmare. How could she stop it? How could she convince him? Why wouldn't the bastard believe her? Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe he only wanted to scare her.

  And then she heard the first scream.

  TWO

  Two weeks later Kabul, Afghanistan

  "THE DIRECTOR CALLED AGAIN," Ralph Moore said when Ted Ferguson came into the hotel room. "He wanted to know why he couldn't reach your cell phone. I told him there must be satellite inter¬ference."

  "Good man," Ferguson said. "Not that he'll believe it." "You should have taken the call."

  "And what was I to tell him? That we still can't find Emily Hud¬son and Joel Levy? I told him that yesterday and the day before. How the hell could he expect the CIA to find them when the military and U.N. are coming up zero? Even if we knew where they were, these damn blizzards would keep us from moving on them." He scowled. "I'll be lucky to have a job when this is over."

  Moore shrugged. "The Company is having tremendous pressure put on it by Congress and the media. You know that, Ferguson."

  "I know that we're drawing a blank. Why aren't our informants able to give us information? It's as if Hudson and Levy dropped off the face of the earth. If they're not dead, why haven't we had a demand for ransom? All the forensic evidence around the trucks indicated that it was a probable bandit hit."

  "They probably are dead."

  "Then show me the bodies, dammit. Let me turn the Marines loose on whoever did it."

  "And get you off the hook."

  He nodded curtly. "I'm as mad as anyone else at the murder and abduction of American citizens, but I won't be made the bad guy. I have to get them out of Afghanistan or show the world they're dead."

  "I've called MI6 in London, but they still don't have any leads," Moore said. "None of their Middle East informants have come up with any info. We may be out of luck."

  "No way." He dropped down in his chair and reached for his phone. "I can't give up yet. Is John Garrett still living in London?"

  Moore straightened in his chair. "Garrett?"

  "Is he?"

  "As far as I know."

  "Then get me reservations there in the next few hours."

  "Garrett won't help. He stopped doing jobs for us three years ago. And you can't rely on money. He's got money to burn these days."

  "Tell me something I don't know. Smuggling evidently pays exor¬bitantly well," Ferguson said grimly. "But he'll do this job. I'll find a way to make sure he does. I need him. He spent years in Afghanistan when he was a kid and has kept his contacts. And he knows those mountains like the back of his hand."

  "I'll bet you don't get him. He was royally pissed at us after Colombia."

  And who could blame him, Ferguson thought. The whole sce¬nario had gone wrong, and the CIA had been forced to leave Garrett to fight his own way out of a very sticky situation. Well, maybe not forced, but he'd regarded Garrett as expendable at the time. "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

  "What?"

  "How the hell do I know? I'll decide that on the way to London."

  He was dialing as he spoke. He'd had the number on hand for the last week, when it had become obvious what a disaster this case was shap¬ing up to be. And involving Garrett might cause the situation to spiral out of control even more. There was no question that he was efficient and deadly in the field, but he could be volatile. In his late teens, Gar¬rett had been a mercenary; later, he had become involved in smuggling and high-tech embezzlement. He had allowed them to use him occa¬sionally when he'd been low on funds, but he'd always been a loose cannon. He had a sudden memory of Garrett as he'd last seen him in that jungle in Colombia: stripped to the waist, sweating, muscles gleaming with explosive tension, his dark eyes glittering with rage when he'd realized they were leaving him. Hell, he might not even take the call.

  Garrett picked up after four rings. "You must be sweating blood, Ferguson."

  "Things are… difficult. I'd like to come and discuss it with you."

  "Such politeness. You used to demand or use blackmail."

  "But you always managed to get your own back. May I come?"

  Garrett was silent a moment. "You're not my favorite person. Why do you think I'd let you?"

  "Because you didn't ignore my call. Because you may be a son of a bitch, but you're not petty." He paused. "And because I thought you might be getting bored. You lived on the edge too long."

  Another silence. "Come ahead. But you're probably going to be wasting your time. I'm not inclined to do you any favors."

  "I'm not asking for anything but information."

  "Bullshit. I've been down that road before." He hung up.

  Ferguson let out his breath as he punched the off button. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until Garrett had agreed to see him. "It's a go," he told Moore. "Get me Garrett's file. I want to read it on the plane. I've got to find a hook."

  "FERGUSON IS COMING," GARRETT said as he turned to Jack Dardon, who had just come up on deck. "I think I'll go back to London."

  "Good. You've been lousy company." Dardon sat down in a deck chair. "Is he going
to beg and plead?"

  "Not if he can use coercion." Garrett got up and went to the rail and looked out at the coast of Greenland. "He thinks I'm bored."

  "You are. So am I. We should go to Amsterdam and find you a nice talented whore to spark a little interest."

  "You can get whores anywhere."

  "But I like the Dutch."

  "Then you go to Amsterdam."

  "Maybe I will. I'm not like you. I like things easy." Dardon was silent a moment. "Don't get involved, Garrett. It could be one big headache."

  He shrugged. "I'm just going to listen to Ferguson."

  "Is that why you've been on the phone for the past two days with Karif Barouk?"

  "Karif's an old friend. I spent four years with him and his family with his tribe in the mountains when I was a boy."

  "So you told me. And the two of you did everything from am¬bushing Russian troops to raising hell in Kabul. It would be natural to call on him if you needed information, wouldn't it?"

  "I'm curious." He turned and walked back to his deck chair and picked up the newspaper that had photos of Emily Hudson and Joel Levy blazoned on the front page. "And I don't like puzzles that have missing pieces. It annoys me."

  "And that's all?"

  "No." He gazed down at the photo of Emily Hudson. "Sometimes I get pissed off. God knows, I know that nothing about life is fair. Look at me. I've been a selfish son of a bitch since I was a kid and crawled out of the gutter. Yet here I am now, safe and on Easy Street because I fought and clawed and learned every dirty trick in the book." He tapped the picture of Emily Hudson. "She seems to have done everything right.

  Worked her way through school and still went on youth trips to help third-world countries. She spent most of her adult life risking her neck trying to preserve some kind of cultural heritage for people who would just as soon kill her as look at her." His lips twisted. "As a reward, she's probably going to die, if she's not dead already."

  "As you said, life's not fair." Dardon tilted his head. "But why is this particular inequity bothering you so much?"

  Garrett had been asking himself that same question. He didn't know either Hudson or Levy, and those sob stories the media had been broadcasting for the last two weeks shouldn't have roused the anger he was feeling. It was just another atrocity in a world filled with them. He'd thought he was hard enough to be totally immune.