by Tom Clancy
Cluzet lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Through the blinding glare of the lights he made out what appeared to be the outline of a “technical”—a small pickup truck with a machine gun mounted in the open bed. He assumed at least one man on the machine gun and one driving, and likely a third in the vehicle.
Another bar of lights lit up at Cluzet’s three o’clock a moment later, and then one at nine o’clock, both also a quarter-mile away. Cluzet swung his binoculars in both directions. Same setup.
Cluzet began to issue an order, but he was cut off by the German in the rear truck. “There’s one behind me.”
Surrounded.
All four technicals eased forward until they came to a stop some two hundred feet away.
“What do you want to do, jefe?” the Spaniard asked in Cluzet’s earpiece. Their trucks had braked to a halt, but with their tires intact.
The contract with the Ingush mercs he’d hired to escort them from Kashgar ended at the Uzbek border. They’d served him well in the mountains of Tajikistan, but out here on the desert flats he was all alone on the ground. He had two good men in the Spaniard and the German riding shotgun in the other trucks. Unfortunately, like him, they were armed only with nine-millimeter pistols. Three pistols against four machine guns plus whatever automatic weapons the opposition would be carrying and, most likely, an RPG or two made for bad odds.
Cluzet turned to his driver, trying to light his cigarette with a Zippo lighter trembling in his hand. Cluzet asked, “What do you want to do, boss?” in Mandarin, but the Chinese man was too scared to say anything.
“Yes, you’re right. We’re quite fucked.” He whispered into his mic, “Hold tight. Nobody get excited.”
A man exited the technical directly in front, his features draped in shadow beneath the glare of the truck lights. But in the outline of the lights, Cluzet saw the man pull a pistol out of his waistband and hold it at his side. The bandit’s easy gait told Cluzet he was an experienced if not arrogant man, his pride no doubt fueled by the success of previous hijackings.
Cluzet turned to the driver. “Me, or you?”
“You,” the driver managed to whisper between nervous puffs.
“Okay. Me.” Cluzet nodded dramatically, as if there were any question to begin with. He opened the passenger door and climbed down from the big rig.
Cluzet stepped into the lights of his own truck as he approached the lead hijacker, a smile plastered on his face and his open hands extended forward, more like a push-up than a surrender. He wanted to show the man he wasn’t armed or dangerous.
They met about halfway between vehicles. This close, the hijacker’s features were clearly visible. The empires that collided here over the centuries were etched in his round, dark face and almond-shaped eyes. His long hair and mustache were brown rather than black. A typical Eurasian of mixed Slavic and Mongol ancestry.
“What do you want?” Cluzet asked in passable Russian.
“What do you think, asshole?” the man answered in American-television English.
He raised the pistol and pointed it at Cluzet’s face.
Cluzet raised his hands higher. “Whoa, hold on there, cowboy. You can take what you want.”
“I want all of it.”
“That will be kind of a problem.”
“Not for me.” He grinned. He snicked the safety release to “fire” with his thumb. “I kill you all, then I take everything.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. But before you kill me, can I pray?”
The man grinned, flashing a golden tooth. “Of course. I’m a religious man myself. But hurry.”
Cluzet dropped to his knees and raised his outstretched hands even higher, shut his eyes, and shouted in English, “Oh, Michael! Thou Great Archangel high above in the sky! If you can hear me, do as I say and bring down your vengeance on these godless heathens now, while I’m still talking, before I finish my prayer, you stupid son of a bitch—”
The ground shook as the four technicals erupted in flames simultaneously, struck by Chinese laser-guided/infrared homing HJ-10 Red Arrow missiles fired from a remotely operated CH-4 Rainbow drone, a Chinese knockoff of the iconic American Predator.
The bandit flinched at the explosions, whipping around just in time to see the wreckage of his flaming vehicle tossed into the desert like a burning tumbleweed.
He spun back around, raising his pistol to fire, but Cluzet shot before the man could raise his gun, putting a nine-millimeter hollow-point round into the bridge of his wide nose, dropping him to the asphalt.
The Spaniard jogged up, a pistol in his hand.
“You okay, jefe?”
“Never better.”
Cluzet stood, turned aside, and spoke into his mic. “Nice shooting.”
The Frenchman was speaking to the lead drone pilot for Star Surveillance, a legitimate security contractor that was also silent-partnered with the Iron Syndicate, who deployed them for operations such as Cluzet’s.
“Thank you, sir.”
“So tell me, how was your nap?”
“Sir?”
“Surely you were sleeping. How else could those bastards have surprised us?”
“They must have taken up position before our cameras were in range. Advance reconnaissance wasn’t in our mission profile. My apologies.”
“Well, we’re stuck here for a while now. Keep your eyes open and alert me if anyone approaches. Understood?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
Cluzet checked his Russian paratrooper watch. Time was not his friend. He needed eight truck tires right away, but he was out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.
The German approached. He must have been reading Cluzet’s mind. “Where are we going to find tires for your rig?”
“I’ll put in a call back to Beyneu. Perhaps they can bring some out.”
“We could unload your cargo. Reshuffle the load on the other two trucks.”
“That would take hours. And if the police arrive when we’re in the middle of it?”
A wounded cry echoed in the darkness.
“Do you want me to stay with your truck and you take the others and drive ahead? At least most of the load will arrive on time if we push on.”
“And leave you out here to defend yourself? I doubt those bastards work alone.”
Cluzet held up his still-smoking pistol, a PAMAS G1 nine-millimeter. The all-steel gun was a French-manufactured Beretta 92 issued to him in the Légion Etrangère. He never missed with it. “Three pistols are better than one, n’est-ce pas?”
“Natürlich,” the German said.
“Grab the extinguishers from the trucks and put out those fires. No point in drawing attention to ourselves,” Cluzet said.
“And the wounded?” the Spaniard asked.
“Put them out of their misery.” Cluzet laid a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “But don’t waste any bullets on them. We might need them later.”
52
Liliana’s Audi coupe pulled into the hotel’s little courtyard at precisely ten a.m., as per their arrangement. She said she wanted to avoid morning rush-hour traffic. Their four-hour trip to Gdańsk would be long enough already. She hadn’t offered to bring him breakfast and he was grateful for that, partly because he woke up still full from dinner and dessert; mostly because he needed to kill the craving for something sweet. “Metaphor alert,” he told himself as he headed to the small hotel gym on the first floor at six a.m., banging out enough burpees to leave him gasping for air and wanting to puke.
And then he did twenty more.
All he really needed was strong, black coffee and he knew exactly where to get it. After his three S’s, he did exactly that, then came back to his room and checked his e-mail and text messages, and even managed to knock out some more of the Dubai project.
But standing there and watching her car pull up created just a little dread in him. He thought about calling her earlier and canceling their trip to Gdańsk, and then just grabbing the train there on his own.
The truth was he had a hard time falling asleep. He was really taken by little Tomasz. They’d become fast friends in a few short hours. He liked kids well enough, but the two of them bonded very quickly. Tomasz was a remarkable little boy.
But Jack also felt really sorry for him. The poor kid was dealt a bad hand early on, losing the two most important men in his life so young. Jack hoped that God would turn over a few aces for him soon, starting with a good man to raise him and to love his mother.
Last night was something special. Maria was both charming and engaging, and Liliana was particularly attractive. It had been only a couple days, but they had spent a lot of time together. She was bright, hardworking, and fiercely patriotic. Jack had little patience for lukewarm souls, especially when it came to the important things. “Dead skunks and yellow lines,” his Grandpa Em used to say.
The three of them had invited him not just into their home but into their lives. He was surprised how easy it was to enter into that. “Instant family,” it seemed. And it felt good. Too good.
He felt guilty. It wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t going to be any magical ending to their tragic story, at least not one that he would be part of. He had no intention of staying in Poland or changing his life for the sake of a woman he’d just met or her amazing son.
He didn’t care that she hadn’t mentioned Tomasz before. Why would she? Field operatives kept their personal lives hidden. Married undercover guys—even the good ones who didn’t fool around—didn’t wear wedding rings on the job. You couldn’t hand your enemy any leverage or, worse, put your family at risk by advertising their existence. No, Liliana had played it straight.
But what about him? Had he led her on last night? He hoped not. He was just being social, right? Enjoying himself and being a good guest, the way he’d been raised.
But last night bothered him. Had he crossed a line? Was he playacting like a dad? A potential husband? He didn’t think so. God knows he wanted to be both someday. But he wasn’t auditioning for those roles last night. He was certain.
So why the guilt? Maybe because he hadn’t fully resolved things with Ysabel yet.
Hell, he just wasn’t good at any of this people stuff.
Liliana’s car stopped and the trunk popped open. Jack tossed his leather satchel and his laptop bag into the back. There was a distinct possibility that Jack could get everything he needed in Gdańsk in a few hours and they could make it back to Warsaw late that evening. Better to be prepared than not.
“Dzień dobry,” Jack said, climbing into the front seat.
“Dzień dobry. Sleep well?”
“Yeah, great. You?”
“Yes, fine. Thank you.”
She seemed a little distant herself. That was good, right? Or just a confirmation that he screwed something up last night.
She pulled out of the little courtyard and maneuvered onto the main boulevard. Traffic was light.
“About four hours, you said?”
“Yes. Do you have the addresses you need?”
“On my phone.”
“Perfect. Mind if I play a little music?”
“Not at all.” A reason to not talk.
Fine with him.
* * *
—
Jack and Liliana had ridden along in silence for the better part of an hour. Jack used the time to check for new e-mails and texts and to explore some travel options for his Cory trip.
“You haven’t spoken much this morning,” Liliana finally said.
Jack glanced up from his phone. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”
“I thought you said you slept well.”
“Yeah, well, I lied.”
She grinned. “Me, too.”
“Did I do something wrong last night?”
“What? No.” She popped off the music. “I was thinking we had offended you somehow.”
“Me? Not at all. I had a great time. My head is just in a weird place these days.”
Liliana smiled knowingly. “So you do have a woman.”
That was the question, wasn’t it?
“I don’t think so.”
“I understand. Relationships can be complicated.”
“So, you and I are square?”
“Square? Yes. Better than that. Friends, I hope.”
“Yeah. For sure.”
They rode along for a few more minutes, Jack relieved that he hadn’t ruined their friendship, and Liliana was clearly thinking about something.
“This woman, Jack. Is she smart?”
“Brilliant.”
“Then don’t worry about her. Give her time. I doubt she’s foolish enough to let you go.”
Jack grinned and shrugged. “Like you said, relationships can be complicated.”
“Friendships are easier.”
Cory came to Jack’s mind. Despite everything, they’d never lost their friendship. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”
“Sometimes a friend is better than a brother.”
Clark, Dom, Midas, Ding, Adara. Brothers-in-arms, for sure. Friends for life. Lisanne, too.
“Agreed.”
“I can’t thank you enough for spending time with Tomasz last night.”
“He’s a great little kid. You’re lucky to have him.”
“You made quite an impression on him. He woke up this morning asking, ‘Where’s Uncle Jack?’ He wanted to go on safari again.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Mommy and Uncle Jack were going to work. He asked to come along, naturally.”
“Well, it is kind of a safari, isn’t it?”
“Yes, maybe so.”
“I imagine Tomasz was close to your dad, as well as your husband.”
“I should tell you that Tadeusz was my fiancé, not my husband. We were to be married after his deployment.”
“You sound like you’re apologizing for something.”
“The Church teaches we should be married before having children, does it not?”
Jack smiled. “You know the expression ‘glass houses’? Besides, you wouldn’t be the first to get it turned around. What matters is that you loved each other and your son. Tomasz must really miss his dad.”
“He knew my father better, and his death hit Tomasz harder. We keep a photo of Tadeusz by his bedside and pray for him every night, but I don’t think Tomasz really remembers him.” She said it matter-of-factly, without emotion.
“That’s tough. You and your mom are doing a great job with him.”
“Thank you. We try. You will make a great father someday.”
“I have a great role model.”
“It must be hard for a son to live up to the image he has of his father.”
You have no idea.
Jack changed the subject. “Have you been to Gdańsk often?”
“Yes. It’s one of my favorite places in Poland. It’s quite different than either Warsaw or Kraków. You can feel the Prussian influence in the region. We’ll also be passing Malbork Castle on the way, just outside of Gdańsk. It was the home of the Teutonic Knights in this region.”
“The Teutonic Knights? How cool is that?”
53
GDAŃSK, POLAND
All stop,” Captain Voroshilov ordered.
Wu, his chief mate, eased the twin handles of the engine order telegraph to the stop position with one hand. On a modern ship like the Baltic Princess, the EOT was really a remote control, though there was an identical unit in the engine room: two handles for two engines. The EOT looked more like a small adding machine; no more of the big, polished brass units like
those on the great old ships such as the Titanic.
They were ten miles northeast of Gdańsk in the Gulf of Danzig, clear of the shipping lanes and well away from the route of the Gdańsk–Stockholm (Nynäshamn) ferry, which ran seven days a week. Every commercial vessel of any size was required to broadcast an automatic identification system (AIS) signal, providing position, navigation, and timing (PNT), including his own. The class-A device aboard his vessel was the latest design—hardly the size of a loaf of bread—and sent and received PNT signals via the American GPS global navigational satellite system. According to the ECDIS display, which included his maritime radar inputs, no ships were within five nautical miles of his vessel at the moment.
His cargo was due to be unloaded in Gdańsk this evening. But he had received word that the truck convoy from Afghanistan was running twenty-four hours late. This was a problem for Cluzet, but even more so for him. The port was busy and the pier where they were scheduled to dock was heavily trafficked. He couldn’t just tie up and wait there for Cluzet to show his face.
Voroshilov also couldn’t unload and leave fourteen metric tons of methamphetamine in the warehouse, for fear of discovery and seizure. The plan was for the convoy to arrive at the same time as the Baltic Princess, rapidly exchange cargoes, and depart. The other concern was that the trucks themselves might never arrive, which meant the transaction was null and void.
Until the trucks arrived, his orders were clear: Don’t unload the cargo. So he parked his boat offshore and waited. He hoped an overly zealous Coast Guard captain wouldn’t view his vessel as suspicious and ask to board her for an inspection.
If he did, there would be hell to pay for both of them.
Where is Cluzet?
54
BELVEDERE, MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
Elias Dahm stood on the aft cockpit of his custom-built HH6 “Flash” catamaran, a high-tech carbon-fiber boat from the mast to the heads. Sumptuously appointed above- and belowdecks, its most attractive feature was the automated, centerline helm in the 360-degree-view saloon. The automated helm allowed Elias to pilot the globe-spanning vessel singlehandedly with push-button remotes controlling the mainsheet and sails, as well as all navigation, engine, electronics, thrusters, pumps, and other sailing controls, from the comfort of his captain’s chair.