Aggressor

by Nick Cook

  Girling moved to a corner where the odour of excrement was less pungent. He tilted the chair, his back resting against the wall, and listened. At first he heard nothing. Slowly, however, sound bubbled up through the silence. He was able to identify the desolate cry he had heard before, the murmurings of a man deep in prayer ritual, and a third voice, very weak, probably a woman.

  It was several hours before Girling heard the approaching squeak of Al-Qadi’s shoes once more. He shook himself awake and waited for the door to be thrown open. But the sound wasn’t anything to do with Al-Qadi, nor was it coming from the corridor. The rats were in his cell.

  Ulm strode purposefully down the centre line of the hangar, glancing left and right at the squat shapes of the MH-53Js. His engineers swarmed over, under, and inside them. The noise of engines spooling and the clatter of wrenches and power drills working against machines was the same sound he heard every time he walked into the maintenance shop at Kirtland. Yet, there was also something missing. It was only when he was half-way down the hangar that he realized what it was. There was no chat, no laughter as his men worked. He wasn’t the only one who had been stung by the Soviets’ sabotage allegation. The order from the crew chiefs had been check and double-check the machines. Lightning was not going to strike twice.

  It was not a good day to be leaving Qena, but he needed to make contact with the embassy in Cairo to collect the codes that would trigger the mission. He was due on the northbound express later that evening.

  He found Jones in the back of one of the MH-53Js. The sergeant had just finished binding his head with bandage from the helicopter’s first-aid box.

  ‘How are you doing, Spades?’

  ‘I’ve felt better, sir.’

  Ulm pulled down one of the folding troop seats and sat opposite his sergeant. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Jones told him about their desperate search for water and the incident with the bedouin at the well.

  ‘Bitov killed them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you now if he hadn’t.’ He paused. ‘If you ask me, we were never meant to find any wells. I’ll bet that bastard doctored the maps.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Shabanov. With respect, sir, the son of a bitch is capable of anything. Which reminds me. Who came in last on the E and E exercise?’

  ‘Kerrigan and Tarantinov,’ Ulm said. ‘But they won’t be doing it again.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Our friend the colonel is too preoccupied with the crash of his

  Mi-24.’

  ‘What’s the latest on the helicopter?’ Jones asked.

  ‘They’re still bringing in the bits, but I think it’s a fair assumption we won’t be riding into the Lebanon on Mils.’

  ‘Well, at least something’s going our way,’ Jones said. ‘I never much liked the look of Soviet hardware.’

  ‘Spades, there are two men dead because of that crash and the Soviets think we had something to do with it.’

  ‘What do you think, sir?’

  ‘I think Bookerman was mistaken, that it was most likely some kind of structural failure. Why would any of us want to sabotage one of their helicopters?’

  ‘Maybe one of them tampered with it,’ Jones said.

  ‘Come off it, Spades.’ Ulm put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘You look like you could use some rest.’

  Jones opened his mouth to speak again, but thought the better of it.

  Ulm looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What’s on your mind, Spades?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Spit.’

  ‘He said something that’s got me beat, that’s all.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Bitov. It was while we were on the cliff. He was telling me about some kind of mission-impossible in Afghanistan from which only he and Shabanov came back. Thing was, the unit they were attached to wasn’t Spetsnaz.’

  Ulm shook his head. ‘Shabanov has been in Spetsnaz twenty years. And the Sovs went into Afghanistan in 1979.’

  ‘So where does Opnaz fit in?’

  ‘Slip of the tongue?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Then maybe that bedouin hit you harder than you thought.’

  Jones passed his hand over the newly applied bandage and managed a broad smile. ‘You could be right there,’ he said.

  Doyle had just finished submitting his daily report to TERCOM when Ulm appeared at the door of the communications room. The intelligence officer followed him outside.

  ‘Anything shaking out there?’ Ulm asked.

  The IO shook his head. ‘TERCOM’s still in silent mode.’

  ‘Shit, this is shaping up to be one big bitch of a day.’

  ‘You’re bound to pick up some news when you go to Cairo tonight.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. The Angels of Judgement managed to give an entire task force the slip when they pulled that stunt at Beirut. Who’s to say they’ve got any easier to find since?’

  ‘It’ll do you good to get off the base,’ Doyle said, then hesitated. ‘You think there’s anything in this sabotage shit?’

  Ulm looked at him.

  ‘I know what you’ve been telling the men, Elliot. But I want to know what you really think.’

  Ulm kicked a toeful of sand across the edge of the concrete runway. ‘I think we’ve got trouble, Charlie, that’s what I think.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever heard of something called Opnaz?’

  Doyle shook his head. ‘Nope. Should I?’

  Ulm repeated the story that Jones had just told him.

  ‘His brains are pretty badly shook up,’ Doyle said. ‘That bedouin hit him hard.’

  ‘He swears the guy said Opnaz, not Spetsnaz.’

  ‘OK, maybe he did. Is it that significant?’

  ‘I want you to have it checked out. Raise Jacobson on SATCOM. I want answers. Bad luck has a habit of coming in threes. And Opnaz has got bad written all over it.’

  The investigator leaned against the wall and nodded to the two others to take up positions by the door.

  Girling rocked back and forth on the chair and clasped his sides for warmth.

  ‘You are cold?’ Al-Qadi asked.

  ‘Just tell me what I’m doing down here.’

  Al-Qadi examined a fingernail. ‘I have one or two questions for you, Mr Girling. That is all. Once you have answered them, you will be free to go.’

  ‘Then ask them.’

  ‘Please, a little patience. We have been more than patient with you.’

  Girling opened his mouth to speak, but Al-Qadi put a finger to his lips. ‘You are right to feel angry.’ His eyes darkened. ‘But then I, too, am angry. You make trouble in my country. You look into matters that do not concern you and you create only problems for us, for Egypt. You are a dangerous man, Mr Tom Girling.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Don’t be nattered, Mr Girling. You are in very deep trouble. This should not be a matter for your private amusement.’

  ‘Why am I in trouble?’

  ‘First of all, you have met with the Israeli, Lazan.’

  Girling shook his head disbelievingly. ‘I’m a journalist, Captain. I meet with many diplomats, even Israeli ones. There is no law, even here, against that.’

  Al-Qadi’s voice rose. ‘Then tell me what you were doing with the Internee of the Al-Mu’ayyad Mosque.’

  ‘The Internee?’

  ‘Perhaps you know him as the Guide.’

  Girling had wondered how the Mukhabarat had found him.

  ‘The Internee is not known for his knowledge of science and technology,’ the investigator said.

  ‘You’d be surprised at his range of interests,’ Girling said.

  ‘Be careful, Mr Girling.’

  ‘There is something about the... Internee that intrigues me,’ Girling said.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘If the Brotherhood does not exist, why is its spiritual leader locked up in an ivory
tower by the Mukhabarat?’

  Al-Qadi tried unsuccessfully to mask his fury. ‘Listen to my truth, Mr Girling. I do not like people who roam my streets, breaking my law. What did you hope to achieve by going to the Sheikh?’

  ‘Why not ask him?’

  ‘He despises people like you.’

  Girling looked at him levelly. ‘And you, Captain.’

  A muscle twitched at the right side of the investigator’s face. ‘Let me ask you again, Mr Girling, what you were doing at the Al-Mu’ayyad Mosque.’

  ‘I went to the Sheikh with an appeal for Stansell’s life.’

  The investigator’s eyes blazed. ‘I told you to leave the matter of Stansell to us.’

  ‘Tell me what progress you have made since Stansell was first taken. Tell me what leads you have uncovered. You have done nothing that suggests Stansell’s disappearance is in any way a priority for you, Captain. And you blame me for looking for him, for doing your job? You and I may have got off to a bad start, but we have the same aim, don’t we? We both want Stansell. For God’s sake, let’s start acting like we’re on the same side. I’m not interested in denigrating Egypt. I don’t want to write an article about the Guide. Whatever he’s doing in the Al-Mu’-ayyad mosque is your business. I just want Stansell. He’s the one - the only - reason I’m here.’

  Al-Qadi’s features seemed to soften. ‘Then, Mr Girling, perhaps we can do business together.’ He walked to the door. ‘Come,’ he said.

  Together with the two bodyguards, they retraced their steps to the entrance. It was still light outside. A wall clock in the hallway stood at a little before six. Al-Qadi crossed the great courtyard, entering an outlying wing of the building via a wooden door. Once inside, Girling became aware of a pungent odour, a mixture of organic decay and chemicals.

  Al-Qadi checked the number on a door at the end of yet another long corridor. He entered the room and flicked on the lights. Unlike the interrogation cell, the forensic laboratory was well-lit, although by Western standards quite filthy. Archaic microscopes abutted bottles of strangely coloured fluids scattered on a ledge that ran waist high around the room. In the centre of the floor there was a large, solid-looking box, its formica work-surface extending to the same height as the shelf. There were various papers and instruments scattered on top. The smell he had first detected upon entering the building was stronger than ever.

  Al-Qadi lifted the lid off the box, scattering the papers across the floor.

  He beckoned. ‘You see, there really is no need for you to stay in Egypt any longer,’ he said.

  The body, half obscured by blocks of ice and semi-submerged in water, lay in a sarcophagus chiselled from the limestone quarries of the Pharaohs.

  Stansell had been shot twice. One bullet had nicked him on the side of the head; a second had hit him in the chest. There were cuts on the body which Girling recognized as pathologist’s incisions.

  Girling turned away. Parts of the torso were badly decomposed and he felt the bile rise to the back of his throat. With a supreme effort he suppressed it. He didn’t want to give Al-Qadi the pleasure.

  ‘When did you find him?’ He heard his voice tremble. The question was a device, nothing more, to shield his pain from Al-Qadi. Inside, all he could think of was his failure.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  Stansell had given him life. Kelso and he had taken it away. Kelso. Girling felt new anger and new pain. None of this needed to happen. Kelso and his lousy ambition. Tom Girling and his wretched stupidity.

  ‘In the Nile. On a patch of beach, near Shari’a Al-Nil, across the river from the Meridien. Some fishermen caught the body in their nets and dragged him ashore. The body had been weighted down.’

  ‘Time of death?’ Girling asked. His stomach churned. The smell was excruciating.

  ‘The very day he was taken. It seems that from the beginning you have been wasting your time here, Mr Girling.’

  Stansell stared at him from the fetid water. If there was one shred of solace for Girling, it was that Stansell’s expression in death was of infinite wisdom. Whatever answers Stansell had been seeking, it seemed he had found them.

  ‘Has the discovery provided any new leads? What about our embassy - has anyone there been told?’ Girling leant against the shelf, staring down at the scattered tools of the pathologist’s trade - scalpels, saws, microscopes, chemical fluids, powders. The questions had exhausted him.

  ‘You are off the case now, Mr Girling,’ Al-Qadi said. ‘No more questions. You are being sent home, deported.’

  Girling felt himself sag. The anger, even the pain, had gone, leaving emptiness.

  ‘As soon as the paperwork is complete,’ Al-Qadi went on. ‘Forty-eight hours, at the most. Meanwhile, stray from the boundaries of this city, or make any further trouble, and I will be forced to detain you in less comfortable surroundings.’ He nodded in the direction of the courtyard.

  The investigator looked at Girling contemptuously. ‘Khalas,’ he said, clearing his throat and spitting into the icy water of the sarcophagus. ‘It is over.’

  CHAPTER 14

  It was a fifteen-kilometre drive from Qena’s main runway to the outside perimeter of the base complex. Doyle drove the jeep hard.

  He waited until the checkpoint had dwindled to a dot in his mirror before he opened his mouth. He told Ulm he had filed a separate report to Washington about Opnaz, but true to form, TERCOM had returned an F3 grade reply, which translated as ‘monitor, but take no further action’. His report of the Hind crash and the Soviet accusation of sabotage had met with a similar response.

  ‘Is that it?’ Ulm asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Doyle shouted over the whine of the jeep’s engine. ‘I took the liberty of plugging into JWICS and seeing what I could find.’ JWICS was the DIA’s Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System, a classified data network for US operatives in the field.

  ‘Well?’

  Doyle gritted his teeth as they hit a particularly deep pothole.

  ‘Opnaz stands for Operativniy Naznachenie,’ he said the moment they cleared it.

  ‘Don’t tell me what it stands for. What the fuck is it?’

  ‘Trouble,’ Doyle said. ‘The toughest antiterrorist squad at the disposal of the Kremlin. According to JWICS, it was formed in 1977 to deal with the potential threat of terrorism against the Moscow Olympics. Opnaz is the Soviet equivalent of Delta, or the SAS. Tough sons of bitches. Being only company strength, it was initially led by a captain. We don’t have the name of that officer - at least, he’s not listed in JWICS - but given Shabanov’s age and rank today, it’s quite possible that he was the main man.’

  Ulm looked at his IO. ‘What does it all mean, Charlie?’

  Doyle sucked his teeth. ‘I don’t know. If Shabanov is Opnaz, not Spetsnaz, then he’s probably the most competent and experienced special forces oper-ative alive today. Judging from some of the jobs they’ve done, Opnaz is a whole order of magnitude better than Spetsnaz, though Spetsnaz has managed to grab the headlines.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I guess the Pentagon was happy to let Spetsnaz be the chief bogeyman. They’re excellent troops, but Opnaz are the guys who get the really tough jobs - Latvia, the Transcaucasus, Uzbekistan. The only thing I can’t work out is - if Jones really did hear Bitov right - why is Shabanov taking orders from Aushev, an Army general, when he’s in the MVD, a totally different part of the establishment. And what was Opnaz doing in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Uzbekistan, Afghanistan... what’s the difference?’

  Doyle took his eye off the road for a moment and turned to Ulm. ‘A lot, Elliot. A whole lot. You see, Opnaz is the elite spearhead of the MVD, the Soviet Ministry of the Interior, the guys responsible for keeping internal order. Officially, the MVD is quite separate from the Army. When the Army wants something special done - in Afghanistan, for example - it calls in its own special forces, Spetsnaz. The MVD is technically forbidden to
operate outside Soviet borders. It’s a constitutional thing, like the rules governing the National Guard back home. And if that’s what we’re dealing with here - if we’re teamed with Opnaz, not Spetsnaz - someone ought to tell us what all the secrecy’s about.’

  ‘Not to mention Aushev’s role in the whole thing.’

  Doyle turned to him.

  ‘General Aushev’s GRU - Soviet Army,’ Ulm added. ‘What’s he doing running a special forces outfit from the Ministry of the Interior?’

  ‘Do you get the feeling these guys are working some kind of agenda of their own?’

  ‘I want answers, Charlie.’

  ‘The embassy should be getting the big picture.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  Doyle pinched the top of his nose. He looked studious for a moment. ‘While you’re there, ask them what’s going on in the Lebanon and Syria,’ Doyle said. ‘The DIA’s reporting movement out of Hizbollah, Fatah, and the PFLP-GC.’

  ‘Movement?’

  ‘Lots of radio traffic in the last couple of days. JWICS says it’s encrypted, but it looks like these guys are planning something. And all at the same time.’

  ‘And in the Lebanon, our next port of call.’

  ‘Have a nice day,’ Doyle said.

  The door opened and for a while Girling stood there, just watching her. Sharifa was dressed in Levi’s and a T-shirt. Her hair was uncombed and she had a faintly drowsy look about her.

  He watched her expression alter as her eyes became accustomed to the shadows outside her apartment door. His clothes were ripped and scuffed, one eye was blackened and his face was a mass of cuts.

  Her hands came up to her face. ‘My God, Tom, what happened to you?’

  He took a step forward. ‘Sharifa, Stansell’s dead.’ He gave her the briefest details.

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. He could see her trying to establish a connection between his appearance and the news. Then, as the words registered fully, his condition ceased to be important and she let out a gasp of anguish. She stifled it by biting her lip, but her eyes brimmed with tears.