“Bishop is stable, but he’s not out of the woods yet.”
That’s what Bloch had told them. Bishop had been airlifted by another helicopter and taken to a hospital in Munich, where he’d have the best medical care that money could buy. But Fleischer had really pounded on him. Slammed his head hard into a mirror. Others had gotten brain damage from less than that, Morgan knew. Bishop could drop dead at a moment’s notice at this stage.
The other thing Bloch had told them was that they could find no sign of Weinberg or the EMP device. It had come to Greece, that much they knew. From there it might have gone anywhere in the world.
Morgan opened the garage door, which led into the kitchen. Nieka was on the other side, whining and waiting to greet him. She licked his hand, and stood up on her hind legs to try to lick his face.
“Down, girl!”
Morgan heard footsteps running down the stairs, and his daughter, Alex, entered the kitchen at a jog.
“Dad, you’re back!” She ran over and threw herself on him, hugging him as hard as she could.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, hugging her back. “Good to see you.”
“You look like hell,” she said. “Your face . . .” Her hand went up to her cheek, mirroring the spot where his skin was still darkly bruised.
“I’ll survive,” he croaked. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out some fruit.
“Mom’s at the store,” she said. “I should call her to let her know you’re back.”
“No,” he said, taking the blender from the cabinet. “No need to do that. I’ll see her when she gets home. I just need to lie down for a bit.”
“Oh—okay,” she said, disappointed. “They still haven’t found the Secretary, I guess.”
“I know.” Morgan was too preoccupied to talk. His answers came out as curt and uninterested. He selected a plump red apple from the fruit basket, took a knife from the block, and started chopping it.
“They’re saying there might be a war,” said Alex, crossing her arms in front of her.
“They’re probably fueling up the aircraft already,” said Morgan.
“Are you serious?” she asked with alarm.
“No. No,” he said, rubbing his face. “Not as much as that, I think. But plans are being drawn up, I’m sure. As a precaution, if nothing else.” He tossed the apple pieces into the blender cup, then peeled a banana.
“Pakistan has nuclear weapons, right?” she asked.
“Right,” he said.
“Could they hit us here in the States?”
“Probably not,” Morgan said. “Their missiles don’t go that far, at least as far as we know. But they could attack others. Israel wouldn’t be out of the question. Maybe our allies in Europe.”
“Do you think things might go nuclear? If we invade?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Morgan. He poured in the milk, then ran the blender.
“Dad! Please! I’m scared! Talk to me!”
He looked at her again and his eyes focused. He was brought away from his haze, and he saw his daughter, fragile and in need of him. “I’m sorry, Alex. Things haven’t been easy. I’ve had a lot of things on my mind.”
“How do you think things have been here, Dad?” she said, with resentment in her tone. “We’re scared stiff! I know you’re in danger out there, but Mom and I are here, afraid that we’re going to lose you!”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be sorry, Dad. Just talk to me.”
Morgan poured the smoothie into a tall glass. “All right,” he said. “Come with me to the living room. I’ll tell you what I can.”
Morgan sat down on the couch, and Alex sat in an armchair so that they were facing each other. Neika walked over to them and sat at Alex’s feet, and she petted the dog absently.
“I want you to be honest,” she said. “What are the chances that the Secretary is going to be found?”
“The more time passes, the less likely it is that we’ll find him alive,” said Morgan.
“Okay,” she said, biting her lip in apprehension. “Why was he taken?”
“I honestly have no idea,” he said. “I can’t make any sense of it.”
“I thought it was just terrorists,” said Alex.
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Morgan.
“Like how?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he said.
“All right. I can respect that.” She looked him in the eyes. “Dad, do you think there’s going to be war?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Everything’s up in the air right now, and neither I nor anyone else knows where the chips are going to fall.”
“I see.” She ran her hand down Neika’s back. “I don’t really feel any better,” she said.
“Sometimes the truth doesn’t make us feel better,” said Morgan.
“All we can hope for is to be able to do something about it.”
Alex sat up taller. “How can you do it, Dad? Why do you do it? Why choose this life?”
“It’s not a choice,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Do you really love the thrill of it that much?”
“No,” he said, thinking of their defeat in Santorini and Bishop in the hospital. “I just have something to protect.”
Alex was about to speak again, but was interrupted by the sound of Jenny’s car pulling up to the driveway. Morgan waited for her in the kitchen. She opened the door and broke out into a wide smile when she saw him. He hugged and kissed her.
“My God, Dan, have I missed you,” she said as he pulled her tight against him. “Are you back for good? Is it over?”
His face told her that it wasn’t. “I’m just waiting for the call,” he said.
She disguised her disappointment with a tearful smile. “That’s my man,” she said. “Out there saving the world. I’m proud of you, did you know that?” He kissed her again, but they were interrupted by a beep from his phone.
It was a message from Bloch. We’ve got something. Come in right now.
“I need to go,” Morgan said.
“Already?” said Jenny.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise. Before you know it.”
Jenny put her hands on his shoulders. “Go do what you do,” she said. “You know that I’ll always be waiting for you at home.” She kissed him deeply, the way a sailor’s wife kisses her husband before a long voyage.
Chapter 39
June 10
Chitral Valley, Pakistan
Akram’s truck broke down twenty miles from the Chitral Valley. Conley and the rest didn’t know it at first, huddled in the back of the truck. It had been a slow ride, during which the truck tipped to this side and that, going over terrain so uneven they wondered whether they were on roads at all.
This truck was entirely enclosed, so they didn’t get a chance to peek out at the majestic beauty of the landscapes that Conley had seen in pictures as he researched the location of the mission. They just sat in the dark, hot, smelly interior, bumping into each other every time the truck lurched.
The vehicle stopped.
“Are we there?” asked Clutch, a short and thickly built black man with a round face, the team’s sniper. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Why don’t you use a bottle like the rest of us?” asked Mantis, the curly brown–haired explosives expert who Conley placed as Midwestern from his accent.
“Ain’t no way for a man to relieve himself,” he said.
Conley banged on the wall that adjoined the truck’s cab. He heard the passenger door open, and then the back door was unlocked. Blue-gray light poured in from outside together with a rush of cool fresh air.
“We’ve broken down,” Harun told them. “Akram’s going to take a look. It’s not a rare occurrence. If any one if you could help, it might get us moving faster.”
“Any of you clowns mechanics?” asked Conley. None of the others moved. Conley turned back to Harun. “I can fix a car in a bind.”
“We are hidden here from the main road,” said Harun. “But—”
“I’m gonna go piss off the mountain,” said Clutch.
The others moved to get out as well. Conley dropped off the edge of the truck last. Walker radioed their status to the support crew at Lambda headquarters.
Harun looked doubtfully at the others spreading out around the truck, but Conley said, “Let them. They’re going to kill each other if they don’t get some air.”
They were on a rocky ledge overlooking the Chitral valley, and it occurred to Conley that he lived for sights like these. They were high on the mountain, and the verdant valley spread out below in a patchwork of cultivated plots like something out of the Middle Ages. At the far end of the valley he saw the Kunar River, its water an astonishing light blue against the gray rocky riverbed.
It felt good to have the hard ground beneath his feet, after sitting on the metal floor of the truck for so long. Everything ached, and worse now that he was moving and in the cooler outside air. He stretched and jogged in place to get his circulation flowing.
“All right, let’s take a look at that engine,” he told Harun.
Akram had already opened up the hood of the truck and had his head buried inside.
“Have you checked the battery?” asked Conley in Urdu. He realized that he didn’t have the vocabulary to talk car mechanics in the language. They worked by pointing, miming and showing, trying to figure out different possible causes of the breakdown.
After half an hour of trial and error, Conley took a break and found Walker smoking on a boulder and sat next to him. He took a deep swig of water from his canteen. “I think it’s time we went over the coordinates to where Haider Raza is supposed to be and lay out our plan of attack,” he said.
Walker put out his cigarette on the rock and stood up. “All right,” he said. “My stuff’s on the back of the truck.”
Conley got up and they walked over together. “Listen,” said Conley as Walker rifled through his bag. “I think we got off on the wrong foot before. Maybe if we just—”
“I don’t want to know you, man,” Walker interrupted. “I just want to be done with this mission and get out of this shit hole. All right? Now, let’s get this done.”
“All right, let’s.” Asshole.
Walker pulled out a plasticized map and laid it out in front of them. Conley recognized the Chitral valley. “This is where we are,” he said, pointing at the map.
“Yeah,” said Walker. “I see it. Raza’s supposed to be at a farmhouse here.” He pointed to a location to the northeast of where they were—not too far as the crow flew, but the road down the mountain was winding and treacherous. “We have to get close without being seen. There’s mountains here, maybe there’s somewhere for us to hide. I’ve got some satellite pictures, hold on . . .” Walker shuffled through his bag.
Conley scratched his chin. “Akram!” he called out. “Come here a second.” The Pakistani got down from the truck and jogged over to Conley. Conley waved him over to look at the map, and pointed to the corner of the map where the farmhouse was located. “Do trucks go here?” he asked in Urdu.
He seemed to need a minute to decipher the map, then it seemed to dawn on him. “Yes, sir, they do.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Many times.”
“Good. Sorry to interrupt you. I’ll be back to help you with the engine in a second.”
Akram walked away. Walker asked, “What the hell was that?”
“He says it’s not rare for vehicles to go that way,” said Conley. “We can ride this truck almost to their doorstep.”
“Okay,” said Walker. “Look.” He had found the satellite images. “The terrain is higher along here—there’s a small ridge, some rocks. It’s right by the farm. We can hide out and run surveillance.”
Walker had a good eye for strategy, Conley thought. It was a good position, and it took wit to find it on the satellite photo. “Sounds like a plan. Get close, then watch for any sign of the Secretary.”
“If we ever get there,” said Walker, motioning toward the truck. “If we get this piece of crap moving again.”
Conley looked around once more. The Lambda team was lounging, a couple of them playing cards. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, but the sky was still blue. They still had hours of light left. If the problem was fixable, they’d make it. If not—well, they’d cross that bridge when they had to.
He went back to help Akram and Harun with the engine. After another twenty minutes of tweaks and Akram trying to start the engine, Harun found the problem and Akram fixed it with duct tape, which made Conley nervous about what else might have been fixed with duct tape. But there was no use worrying about that—they had no other options. This time, when Akram turned the key, the truck came back to life.
Before they departed, Conley showed Harun, on the map, a spot beyond the ridge where they could stop, and Harun coordinated with Akram to get them there. Then, everyone piled back into the back, Conley last, and Harun closed them in. They were off. It was a short, bumpy ride to the valley floor, and then another hour of mostly smooth sailing. The Lambda team sang dirty ditties until Harun banged on the back of the truck cab, either because they were near civilization or because he just wanted them to shut up.
When they came to a stop and heard the engine cut off again, no light was coming in from the tiny cracks in the truck anymore. Harun opened the back door, and they saw that night had fallen.
“This is where you get off,” said Harun, “And I turn back.”
“You’re not coming?” asked Conley as he hopped off the truck and pulled his pack along with him.
“I’ve done my part,” said Harun. “Akram and I want to be as far away from this as possible when it happens. Come here, old friend.” He pulled Conley in close for a hug. As they embraced, he whispered, “Watch out for these men. I do not trust them, and you should not, either.”
Harun climbed into the back of the truck and Akram executed a ponderous U-turn, returning from where they came.
“Watch them go straight to Raza and tell him where we are,” said Walker as they watched the truck roll away.
“We should have killed them and left their bodies in a ditch,” said Mantis.
“Let’s move out,” said Conley.
It was a dark and moonless night. They had been left in a crook of rock that shielded them from prying eyes. They would have to walk about a mile in open farmland to reach Raza’s villa, and the night would provide the cover.
They walked a couple hundred yards up the side of the mountain, single file, and found a protected outcropping to hide out behind and run surveillance. Walker radioed in their position to headquarters. “Have the evac chopper ready. Tell them to home in on this location.” He was promised that it would be within two minutes of them at all times.
“Who’s running our getaway?” Conley asked.
“A couple mercenaries with a Mil Mi-8.” That was unsurprising. The Soviet-designed Mil Mi-8 was one of the most popular helicopters in the world, and was in wide civilian use. It was certainly easier to get and less regulated than a Black Hawk.
“Who are they?” Conley pressed.
“Who cares?” said Walker, and that was that.
The team got out their night vision and remote surveillance gear. Conley had his binoculars, which would serve. They were within a mile of the house, with a wheat field the stretched nearly all the way to their location. The lights were on and the windows plainly visible against the darkness. Conley looked through the binoculars.
The house was not small, probably boasting some four or five bedrooms and having some touches of ornamentation like a row of simple columns and rounded arches, but it was mostly plain, single-story and built of exposed stone. Conley saw two men inside, and thought he saw a Kalashnikov leaning against a wall. They spent nearly twenty minutes surveying the compoun
d, in silence except for a few brief exchanges.
It was Mutt who spotted him first. “That’s him. Holy shit, that’s him! Second window on the left, look fast!”
Conley looked through his binoculars. The beard had been trimmed, but the face was unmistakable.
Haider Raza.
“We’ve got the bastard,” said Bluejay.
“Call it in, Walker,” said Conley.
Walker already had the radio in his hand. “We have positive identification. I repeat, we have positive identification. It’s Raza. We’ve got the bastard.”
“Copy. Proceed with caution, Walker,” came the crackling voice from the radio communicator.
The excitement was palpable, but the team’s eagerness made Conley uneasy. “We need a plan of attack,” he said.
“The plan is we go in and kick ass,” said Walker, inspecting his sidearm.
“We need to confirm that the Secretary of State is in there,” said Conley.
“We’ll do that after Raza and his men are dead.”
“Walker, Jesus Christ—” started Conley, losing his patience.
“We’re going in now,” said Walker. “You want to stay behind, you go right ahead. Team, move out.”
They filed out around the outcropping and out of sight. “Goddamn it,” Conley whispered. He found his tactical vest in his pack and strapped it on over his rumpled white button-down shirt. Then he fished out his Beretta M9, pocketed two extra magazines, put his seven-inch tactical knife in its leather sheath, and set off after them.
The night was dark, and he could hardly make them out about twenty yards ahead. It took them less than a minute to reach the wheat field. Walking through the wheat was noisy and the stalks whipped at Conley’s hands. A rising wind made the plants bow and blew dust in his face, but at least masked whatever sound they might make. The house loomed larger and larger up ahead.
A low stone wall marked the edge of the wheat field about thirty yards from the house. The team crouched against it, looking over at the three windows that faced them. Figures walked past the windows too often to allow an approach this way. Walker signaled for them to move north along the stone wall. They crept forward, crouching to keep out of sight. Conley unsheathed his knife and clutched it in his hand.
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