by Arno Joubert
He sighed. “I guess you have one or two things to finalize, darling.” He strode to the sofa and sat down. “Mind if I finish our game?” he asked, pointing his chin at the scrabble board.
She waved a hand. “Off course.”
He nodded, started arranging the scrabble tiles on the board.
She gazed at him for a while, her expression softening. “He’s quite jealous, my husband.”
James glanced at the President, chuckling.
“He has clearance?” Bruce asked softly.
She smiled, strain coloring her features. “Yes.” She turned to Bruce. “Yes. He’s my political adviser. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
“Anything I can do to help?” James asked, frowning over his glasses.
The President shook her head. “No, thank you, darling. This is a military matter requiring—“
The door flew open and Henrie Dumas rushed in waving a black envelope with gold embossed lettering. “Madam President, we’ve received another threat.”
“What does it say?”
Dumas sucked in rasping breaths. “A bomb…is going to…explode.”
“What is the target?” Bruce asked, grabbing the envelope.
Dumas stood up straight and took a deep breath. “New York.”
Laiveaux clutched his wrists, massaging the lesions left by the rough sisal rope. He opened and closed his hands, trying to get the blood flow circulating through his arms. He unscrewed the bottle of cheap whisky Moktar had left him, and took a swig. He held up the bottle to the other prisoner. “Want some?”
Agent Jake Turner smiled, then took the bottle from Laiveaux.
Laiveaux glanced around. He was in a small prison cell without any windows, a sturdy door the only way to exit the room. The heavy wooden door looked more solid than the mud walls. It was damn hot inside, the air dry and stale and dusty.
“You here to rescue me?” Turner asked with a smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Laiveaux chuckled. “Funny.” Bloody traitor.
Earlier that morning, a young woman wearing a burka had brought him a meal. She spooned the milky slop into his mouth, the guards refusing to untie him so that he could eat by himself. They muttered some words to each other in the dialect of the nomadic Kandahar people. Outside kids chattered and laughed, chickens clucked and a lone dog barked at the passersby. He was probably tied to a pole. Probably by the same sick people that had tied Laiveaux to his chair.
After he had told Moktar the rubbish he thought he wanted to hear, they had cut the rope and handed him a bottle of cheap whisky. Moktar had said it was all he could find. They gave him a meal and allowed him to eat by himself.
Laiveaux guessed they were somewhere in the Rigestan desert region of Afghanistan, probably a small village, recently settled. Due to the droughts in the area, the people moved around more often, not having permanent bases that they returned to as they had done in the past. They were always looking for more fertile regions and places that had some water.
Laiveaux’s plan had been executed to perfection. Al Qaeda were always on standby, looking for opportunities to kidnap high ranking agents. When he announced over his unsecured cell phone that he was taking Yumi to La Cite des Sciences and that he wanted minimal protection that evening, that he wanted to take a walk with his goddaughter in private, they took the bait. His undercover agent got the exact details of when and where they would execute the kidnapping.
Jake Turner gave him back the bottle of whisky. “Thanks.”
“How have you been, Agent Turner?”
He shrugged. “Okay, under the circumstances.”
The man had been kidnapped by Al Qaeda in Kabul a year ago. They hadn’t requested a ransom, only accepted responsibility for the kidnapping.
Then Laiveaux’s undercover agent in Kabul had been murdered and hung in the town square.
The next target was Kasra Naheed, a politician from the house of elders and destined to become the next Afghani President. He was killed in a car bomb.
“Naheed is dead.”
“I heard,” Turner said. “I wasn’t there to protect him. I feel like it’s all my fault.”
Laiveaux nodded but said nothing. He had given Bruce until fifteen hundred today. They were probably on their way. He chuckled. If it was up to Alexa, she would have stormed the place already. The clock in his head said he had another four hours.
“How are you keeping up, old chap?” Turner asked. “You’re looking a bit under the kosh.”
He turned to face Turner. The man was a senior agent, British, a veteran with more than thirty years in the field. But he also liked the high-life, nice cars and pretty woman. Laiveaux studied him. He looked in good health, fat and happy. The guy called Rehan would come fetch Turner every couple of hours. Laiveaux heard the blows, but knew they weren’t real. Laiveaux guessed that they probably took him to have a nice meal and a cigarette. “I’m fine. You?”
Turner nodded slowly. “Good.”
They only kept him in the cell with Laiveaux to keep up appearances, hoping that Laiveaux would divulge a piece of pertinent information to the double-crossing bastard. The man had been probing him with questions, whether the safe houses were still secure, hoping to catch a crumb of information that the General might drop.
“That stuff you said about the new agent in Kabul.” He lit a cigarette, handing it to the general as he lit one for himself. “Was it true?”
Laiveaux took a drag, stood up, taking a last sip from the bottle. In a flash he smashed it against the wall and stuck the bottle neck against the man’s throat. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, pinning the man against the wall.
The cigarette dangled from Turner’s lip.
“What else do they know?”
Turner shook his head, wide-eyed.
Laiveaux grabbed the cigarette from his lip, clamped a hand over his mouth and pushed the coal into his cheek.
The man’s face went red and a vein throbbed in his forehead. The sickening stench of burnt flesh hung between them.
Laiveaux waited for the man to suck in a couple of breaths from flaring nostrils before slipping his hand from his mouth.
“They were going to kill me, General,” Turner said, a tear rolling past the wound on his cheek.
“What else?”
The man closed his eyes. “That’s all, I swear. The longer I took with the info, the longer I lived.”
“You sure?”
The man nodded furiously.
Laiveaux clamped his hand over Turner’s mouth and ground the cigarette into Turner’s forehead, tossed the butt to the ground. “Who are you working for? And don’t bullshit me.”
The man closed his eyes, shaking his head.
Laiveaux stuck the bottle to his neck and pulled it across. A fine trickle of blood seeped on to Turner’s shirt. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” the man sobbed.
Laiveaux had expected as much. “Do you know about the missiles?” He had received a black letter containing threats that he was going to wipe out strategic sites, and he had noticed hundreds of missile launchers move into position.
The man shook his head.
“What are the rocket launchers targeting?”
The man shook his head, fear in his eyes. “I don’t know.” He blinked away a tear. “I swear.”
Laiveaux slit a gash into the man’s cheek.
“I swear, please stop.”
Laiveaux grunted, he had gotten as much as he was going to out of the man. He slit his throat. Turner clutched his neck, choking, trying to speak. He dropped to his knees, blood spurting from the wound. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, like a fish out of water. He had a questioning look on his face. He fell to his side, thrashed for a couple of seconds and went limp.
Rehan swung the door open and pointed his rifle at Laiveaux. “What’s going on?” he shouted in Arabic.
Laiveaux dropped the bottle and lifted his hand
s. “I was just venting some of my frustrations on Agent Turner over here.”
Rehan ran and kneeled next to the man. He cast Laiveaux an accusing glance. “He’s…He’s—“
“Dead. I know,” Laiveaux said and picked up his cigarette. He puffed and the coal started burning again. He took a deep drag and blew out the smoke through his nose. “I don’t expect you to understand, Mr. Rehan, but, unfortunately, loose lips sink ships.”
Alexa lifted her head over the edge of the dune and looked through her Steiner binoculars. She rubbed a bead of sweat from her eyebrow with the back of her hand before resuming her observation of the small shanty town in front of them.
The sun beat down on her back, so she had dug herself into the sand. According to his GLD chip, Laiveaux was in one of the buildings in the remote village in front of them. They had been scoping out the place since early that morning when they had arrived.
She squinted her eyes and looked up at the sun; it was almost noon. Goat herders walked behind their goats, hitting the ground with a stick to keep the stubborn animals moving in the required direction. Woman sat around a well, washing clothes in plastic drums.
She lowered the binoculars. Her hands were shaking, probably because of the strain of staying in the uncomfortable position for long. She turned her head sideways. The damn migraines were back. “Suggestions?”
Neil looked up from his binoculars. “There’s open terrain for six, maybe seven hundred yards around town, which means we won’t be able to sneak in.”
“Could we flush them out?”
“How?”
Alexa shrugged. “Bomb the place.”
Neil frowned. "What about the collateral damage? Like our beloved general, for instance."
She wiped back a strand of hair that stuck to her forehead. “Shit.” She felt emotionally drained. She placed a hand on her feverish brow and closed her eyes.
“You okay?”
She grimaced, opening her water bottle and forcing herself to swallow some of the tepid liquid. “We need to do something, soon,” she said. “I need to get out of the sun.”
Neil stood up, crawled down the dune. “Let’s rest a bit.”
Alexa followed him down the steep dune. They crawled into their small tent they had pitched at the foot of the sand bank and Alexa collapsed on her back. “Merde, I’m whipped.”
Neil unwrapped an energy bar and gave it to her, but she shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry, just tired.”
He shrugged and took a bite.
She closed her eyes then sat upright. “I think I have an idea.”
Alexa followed the goat herder on the rocky track that led to the small village. Whirlwinds swept up the dust and blew it across the path, only to die down and start up again fifty meters away. The wind felt warm and it sounded like a million sighing voices, each one trying to be heard above the other.
She had dressed in the traditional garb, the burka covering her face. She wore a long, loose-fitting black dress which dragged in the sand as she walked. The dress was warm and scratchy, she shifted the uncomfortable garment on her shoulder as she felt beads of sweat running down her back. Why these woman allowed themselves to be treated this way she didn’t know. It was pure torture.
She strolled along, her sandals flopping in the dust. She had a basket with a dozen eggs slung over her shoulder. Kids ran past, and a dog stood up from beneath a bush and barked at her. She ambled towards the centre of the small village, her eyes on the ground. Two woman hurried past and greeted shyly, and she nodded her head.
Neil was probably watching her through the telescopic sight. He wasn’t too enamored with her plan, he never was when it meant that she had to walk head-on into imminent danger. He had wanted to go, but she convinced him that would be stupid. What threat could a woman possibly pose? He reluctantly agreed.
She shifted the basket onto her hip, she felt shaky as she plodded along on numb legs. She would have to have it checked out, she had never felt this way before. Alexa rounded a corner and cast her eyes downward when she saw two men with rifles in front of a building. They leaned back casually, one man smoking, the other cleaning his nails with a toothpick or a twig or something. They looked bored.
They wore dirty long-sleeved robes and sweaty headscarves, the rifles slung casually over their shoulders. She sauntered towards them and repeated the words that Neil had made her memorize.
“Would you like to buy some eggs?”
The men snorted and shook their heads and said something she didn’t understand. To say they sounded cross was an understatement, pissed off was more like it. They pointed fingers at her, talking excitedly, gesturing and waving their hands. One guy slipped the gun off his shoulder.
“Now, now, gentleman, no need to get your knickers in a knot.” She pulled the pistol from the basket and fired two shots, splattering the dirty brown walls with their blood. They didn’t looked bored anymore, their eyes were wide open in surprise.
"Imagine that, a woman that can shoot, hell, a woman with a gun!" she said, then hitched up her dress and kicked at the door. It was made from solid wood. She kicked again and the frame ripped from the mud walls. Kids ran down the road, screaming as they went. A young girl stopped, turned and stared at her, her mouth agape. Alexa shooed her away.
One more kick and the door crashed to the ground. She entered the room, swinging her Glock in a wide arc. Cushions lay scattered on the floor, and a plate was placed next to them with what remained of a half-eaten meal. She pulled the Burka off her head and slipped out of the robe.
She shuffled to another door which stood wide open and cautiously entered the room. It was dark and smelled of sweat and stale cigarettes. A robed man turned around. He held a rifle and took aim, but Alexa dispatched him with a bullet to the head before he managed to fire. She scanned the room, wishing that her eyes would adjust to the dark already.
“Alexa?” she heard from a dark corner.
She spun to her right, saw the outline of a shape on the ground. She ran to the man. “General, are you all right?”
Laiveaux was in a bad state. His eyes were swollen shut, blood dripping from his nose. He managed to force a weak smile. “Good day, Captain,” he said in a cracked voice.
She surveyed the room. Another man lay dead in the corner, she recognized him as the agent that had been kidnapped by al-Qaeda a couple of months ago. Shit. Probably tortured to death.
“We need to get out of here, my girl. They’re sending snipers in, they know that you’ve managed to track me down.”
“Affirmative, General,” she said and put his arm around her shoulder. She hoisted him to his feet and started dragging him towards the door.
A bullet thwacked into the wall and a small hole appeared, letting in a sliver of sunlight. Laiveaux fell backward, dragging Alexa with him. He groaned, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing from the wound where the bullet had struck. He pushed himself up on all fours. “They’re using thermal imaging scopes, get out of here, Captain.”
Two more holes appeared in the wall and thumped into the ground, spraying dust in their face. She jumped up and grabbed Laiveaux by his collar, started dragging him out of the prison cell. She needed two walls between her and the shooter.
A bullet zinged through the wall and thudded into her hamstring and she went down for a second, but she managed to prop herself upright again, putting all her weight on one leg. The general did his best to help her, crawling on all fours towards the doorway.
They made it through the door as two bullets ricocheted off the floor, spitting up splinters of stone and dust. Alexa leaned against the wall and sucked in deep lungfuls of air. She had never been this slow to react in her life. She knew they had to keep moving, the sniper would change position and move to a location where he had only one wall to shoot through.
Alexa pulled the two way radio from her belt. “Someone’s shooting at us, Neil. I need covering fire.”
The radio crackled and hissed. “What?”
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“Someone shot us through the wall. They’re using thermal scopes.”
“Shit. Okay, get out of there, I’ll cover you, over.”
“Get us a Medivac, Neil.”
“You injured?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Yes, both of us are wounded.”
“Aw shit, Alexa. Okay, I’ll get the Medivac, but it’ll take them at least half an hour to reach us.”
Alexa sighed. She swallowed and looked down at Laiveaux sitting cross-legged on the floor. A pool of blood had formed between his legs. “Okay, but you better take out that sniper.”
“Affirmative.”
“Please Neil, hurry.”
She heard the radio click once.
Alexa ducked as another shot exploded through the wall above her head. “C’mon General, we need to keep moving.”
Neil lifted his head over the dune and scanned the horizon. "Where the hell are you?"
Alexa's desperate pleas for help rang in his ears. He scanned the landscape clockwise through three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, then anti-clockwise. He noticed a glint to his right. "There you are, you bastard."
He took aim, zooming in with his scope. A man wearing army fatigues was laying on a dune, firing in rapid succession with what looked like an F2 sniper rifle. Alexa had been right, the rifle was fitted with a thermal scope.
He bounded down the dune and pulled the AWM .338 Lapua from the tent, pumped his legs up the dune again. Neil steadied his breath and took aim. It was going to be a hell of a shot, the target was at least nine hundred meters away.
He adjusted for the wind and aimed above the target to adjust for the distance and squeezed the trigger. The gun slammed into his shoulder as he watched through his scope, and two seconds later a puff of dust exploded a meter in front of the shooter.
Neil adjusted a millimeter down and pulled the trigger again. Through the scope he saw the shooter look up as the bullet struck him. The shooter dropped his rifle and clutched his shoulder. "That should keep you busy for a while."