by Ross Sidor
Avery secured his rifle to his vest, stepped over the tailgate, and jumped. Smacking against the pavement, he tucked and rolled, hoping the driver didn’t him in his mirrors for the second he was exposed in the glow of the taillights, before the darkness enveloped and concealed him. The truck continued down the road, staying with the convoy, while Avery got up and ran for the safety and cover of the forest.
Overhead, there were blinking lights in the sky and the clamor of jet engines as the Antonov ascended into the night.
FOURTEEN
Dayrabot
They returned to the safe house at 2:45AM. Avery had made his exfil through the forest without incident, and later linked up with Reaper on the highway. On the drive back, they’d discussed the recon, but nobody felt comfortable commenting on the nature of Cramer’s appearance, especially not Poacher. Of the group, he was the only one other than Avery to have personally known and worked with Cramer. Cramer was the one who had pulled strings and got Poacher into the Agency. Avery knew how to read Poacher, and the ex-army NCO’s sullen expression and silence hinted at the disillusionment and betrayal he felt.
Avery supposed that he should have experienced something similar. But he didn’t and was glad for it. That type of clouded thinking would only impair his judgment. He only felt resentment and anger. And a new overwhelming sense of purpose. He felt driven now, like he was whenever he was on the trail of a high value target in Afghanistan or Iraq. It made little difference that this HVT was an American, someone he’d once fought beside. Avery didn’t do sentimentality. Maybe later, after this was over, but until then, this was just another job, Cramer another enemy that needed to be put down.
Upon reaching the safe house, Avery’s first course of action was to use Sideshow’s encrypted satellite phone to place a call to the secure cell that Matt Culler always carried and left turned on 24/7 at home or work. CIA employees are prohibited from brining cell phones into headquarters, but unofficial exceptions are made for certain senior personnel.
Nine thousand miles away, it neared 6:00PM Wednesday, still the previous day, in Washington, so Avery didn’t have to worry about waking up Culler, not that he would have cared anyway. Culler knew that Avery only called him from the field when it was something important.
Culler was still in his seventh floor office, adjacent to D/NCS’s office suite when he took Avery’s call. It was normal for Culler to put in ten-plus hours a day at work. He sounded not at all pleased to hear Avery’s voice. In fact, his rather vitriolic, expletive-laced tirade caught Avery off-guard.
Avery barely had a chance to get in a word before Culler chastised him over the anonymous tip given to AMEMBASSY Dushanbe leading to a house full of dead bodies in Yazgulam. He told Avery that he should have called in as soon as he thought he had a solid lead on Cramer’s location. He also mentioned something about the FBI being concerned about Otabek Babayev having been restrained and shot multiple times.
Avery kept calm. He didn’t try to defend his actions, instead patiently allowing Culler to unleash. The man didn’t possess all the facts, and Avery knew Culler’s mindset would change once he heard about Ayni. This wasn’t how Culler normally acted. He was thoughtful and not prone to reactionary outbursts. Something else was going on, and Avery was sure it involved an irate D/CIA and D/NCS.
Finally, Culler informed Avery that the FBI forensics team that examined the IMU house in Yazgulam discovered Cramer’s fingerprints and DNA there, as well as two teeth and several fingernails that also belonged to the Dushanbe station chief. The blood was likewise confirmed to be Cramer’s.
The FBI also recovered another video from the digital camera in the house, Culler told Avery, fatigue and resignation in his voice, frustration over his seeming failure to save Cramer. The video showed Cramer’s graphic execution by way of having his throat sliced at the hands of masked IMU members. The voice analysis identified his killer as Otabek Babayev.
It must have been a pretty convincing performance and production, Avery thought, because Culler also said that both FBI and CIA analysts vouched the video’s authenticity.
“God damn it, Avery,” Culler said. “If you’d gone into that house just one day earlier, we could have gotten him out alive. Why the hell didn’t you call it in when you got the location from Gurgakov?”
Looking at it from Cramer’s perspective, Avery decided, this was simply the next logical step. He supposed that Cramer would have had to fake his death for all of this to work. Otherwise CIA would continue searching for him, and someone, somewhere would find a lead at some point.
“Are you there, Avery?”
To Culler’s surprise and irritation, Avery didn’t react to the news of Cramer’s murder. Instead, he relayed his version of events from Tajikistan, telling Culler in detail what he saw at Ayni, but omitting the part about Cramer for the moment. He informed Culler about the placement of the GPS tracker onboard the truck and provided the technical specifications and the frequency it transmitted on.
“Well, at least we got something out of this mess,” Culler grumbled. Babayev’s death was no small matter either. It was a significant blow to al-Qaeda-allied terrorists in the region. “Did you find anything else?”
“Oh, yeah,” Avery said, as though it was an afterthought. “Cramer’s not dead. The IMU, the execution, whatever it is you saw, it’s all bullshit. Convincingly done, I’m sure, but bullshit nonetheless. I saw Cramer at Ayni, less than two hours ago, along with SCINIPH and Adeib Arzad, and he was very much alive, with his throat intact. Poacher can corroborate. We saw him board a cargo plane full of drugs and Russians.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Culler muttered. Then there was a prolonged silence over the phone, as he took several seconds to absorb this. Culler was rarely at a loss for words. “I’ll put out an alert for that Antonov. We’re going to find out who owns that jet and where it’s headed, and POTUS is sure as hell going to demand some answers from Putin’s gang.”
“No, don’t do anything, Matt. If you do that, Cramer will disappear, and we’ll never find him. We need to keep this quiet. Don’t make any inquiries. Don’t pass this information along, just sit on it for now.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Cramer’s probably on his way to the Lubyanka right now. The Russians launched a false flag op to grab our station chief. I have to go to D/NCS with this right away.”
“Okay,” Avery said, realizing what Culler was thinking. “Let me explain. Cramer’s not a prisoner, and I’m not sure if the Kremlin sanctioned this. Cramer’s working with these Russians, and he seemed to be on pretty friendly terms with our old friend Mullah Arzad, too.”
“What?”
“That’s right.”
Several seconds of silence followed as Culler absorbed this.
“To be clear, so there’s no misunderstanding here, you’re insinuating that-”
“Cramer’s dirty. He’s involved in an arms-for-drugs scheme, and he probably compromised Dushanbe station’s agents.”
“You’re absolutely certain of this?”
“I’m pretty fucking certain, Matt. I’ll send you the photos over Intelink. He faked his kidnapping by the IMU, just like they then staged his execution. It’s the only way you’d stop the search for him. He knows the Agency will never give up looking for him as long as they believe he’s alive, not with all the shit stored in his head, but eventually you will give up looking for a corpse. He knows exactly how Langley will react, every step of the way.”
“If what you’re saying is true, this is a total cluster fuck. How the hell am I supposed to go to D/NCS with this?”
“Leave Cramer to me,” Avery said. “I’ll find him. Tell D/NCS if you need to, but urge him to keep it quiet. Issue a press release. Announce Cramer’s death by the IMU and put up a new star on the Memorial Wall. Cramer will be listening to the news. Let him think he’s gotten away with it and that we’re searching Tajikistan for a corpse. Then, when I do find him, I’ll take care of it, and you won’t
have to deal with the blowback. Just think of the cluster fuck when the senate launches a full investigation into Agency ops. Fuck, they’ll probably completely dismantle the National Clandestine Service by the time they’re through. Best to let the world believe the IMU abducted, tortured, and killed Cramer, at least for now. Until I can find him and bring him in.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”
“It’s for the best, sir, to keep it quiet.”
“No, not that.” Culler sounded exasperated. He didn’t like it, but he agreed with Avery on that part.
The media and the Agency’s enemies in congress would love to find out about a senior CIA officer involved in arming America’s enemies. It would quickly become a political issue. Conspiracy theories would run rampant. The fallout would have lasting and damaging consequences to American intelligence operations. All serving CIA officers would likely be investigated, and the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence would invariably demand new oversight and tighter control over the CIA operations branch. It was not an exaggeration to say that the National Clandestine Service might not even survive the scandal, or the service would at least become so completely neutered as to make it ineffective, which amounted to the same thing.
“Just before you called,” said Culler, “I informed the director of national intelligence and the president’s national security adviser that Cramer was executed by Uzbek terrorists. D/CIA was preparing to visit his ex-wife to give her the news. Now you’re telling me Bob’s alive and aiding and abetting our enemies.”
“I’m pretty sure, Matt, unless you’re leaving something out? Unless Cramer’s in the middle of some super secret spook shit, which I don’t believe to be the case, because that would mean you sent me to Tajikistan under false pretenses. And you wouldn’t play those kinds of games with me, would you?”
“Let me be clear. If you saw Cramer at a Russian airfield with the Taliban, he is mostly certainly not operating within official parameters. As of this morning, as far as everyone here at Langley is concerned, Robert Cramer died in IMU captivity at the hands of Otabek Babayev and we’re looking for a body to bring back home.”
“Yeah,” said Avery. “That’s what I thought. Look, Matt, there’s something else that’s really bothering me about this.”
“What can possibly be worse?”
“Cramer’s been the top priority at Langley the last couple days, but he wasn’t the only reason you sent me here.”
Culler paused, and Avery pictured the gears moving in his head. “Wilkes.”
“He was investigating a nuclear smuggling pipeline when he was killed, along with CERTITUDE, who’d been tasked with identifying Pakistani nuclear scientists working with the Taliban. I’m just a trigger puller, not a fancy Ivy League analyst, but it’s pretty clear that Cramer’s dealing in more than guns and missiles.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Culler said. “We’re pulling out of Afghanistan.”
“Yeah, and Cramer’s not too happy about that, after devoting the last several years of his life there. And with the foreign occupiers leaving, don’t you think the Taliban are thinking about retaking power, and keeping it this time? Maybe with WMD capacity.”
“All right, for now, until we learn more, we’ll play it your way. I have other shit to deal with at the moment, like a shipment of missiles headed for Afghanistan. And Avery, if you find Cramer…”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll handle it.”
“There can be no mistakes on this. We need to be absolutely certain of Cramer’s complicity before taking direct action. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” Avery said, impatient. “Trust me, I’d like to give Cramer the benefit of the doubt, too, but there’s no mistaking what I saw.”
“One more thing, Avery.”
“Yes?”
“I want Cramer alive, if possible. Once you get him, he’s going to our darkest black site for interrogation. We need to know the extent of the damage and just how badly he’s compromised our operations and assets. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Culler ended the call.
“I’ve got a lead on that Antonov,” Mockingbird announced before Avery even set the phone down. Mockingbird’s laptop glowed in front of him in the darkened apartment. Poacher entered the room. “It’s registered to GlobeEx Transport, an air freight company owned by Aleksander Litvin.”
The name meant nothing to Avery, but Mockingbird, who’d done two years at CIA’s Counterproliferation Center, knew all about Litvin and gave Avery the rundown.
Aleksander Litvin, an ethnic Ukrainian from Donetsk, was a former Soviet Air Force major assigned to the Navigation and Air Transport Regiment, which was once responsible for delivering arms to anti-Western Third World dictators and insurgents. His talent for languages and overseas experience saw him transferred to GRU, military intelligence, for assignments in Afghanistan, Angola, and Nicaragua.
After the Cold War, Litvin started an air freight company delivering Red Army hardware for sale on the international black market. Thanks to the numerous African wars of the 1990s, Litvin’s business grew rapidly. He now owned and operated an air cargo fleet of Antonov and Ilyushin jets, delivering everything from AK-47s and RPGs to T-81 tanks and Mi-24 gunships to any government, African rebel, South American guerilla, or Asian militia with enough cash, blood diamonds, or drugs to pay for it. In the last year alone, he’d been spotted in Burma, Iran, North Korea, Syria, Venezuela, and Vietnam. He survived a suspected Mossad assassination attempt last year, when he was in Beirut, negotiating a deal with Hezbollah to upgrade their Katyusha rockets with guidance systems.
Litvin maintained close connections to the Kremlin. His former commanding officer in GRU now served as a deputy defense minister under Putin and publicly maintained that Litvin was an air transport entrepreneur turned humanitarian, providing aid and medical supplies to impoverished nations. Russian agencies overtly impeded investigations and operations by American and European law enforcement agencies into Litvin’s organization. He was one of dozens of Putin-affiliated Russians and Ukrainians sanctioned by the West after Russia annexed the Crimean Peninsula. NATO and European Union members banned GlobeEx employees from travelling to their countries and froze Litvin’s assets.
Mockingbird flipped his computer around so Avery could see the screen. Aleksander Litvin was tall and built, with a head of messy black hair and a bushy mustache. Dressed in rumpled, ill-fitting clothing, he looked more like the regular at a dive bar than a multimillionaire. He looked to be in his early fifties and had a long, narrow face with deep-set intelligent, predatory eyes and an oversized nose laced with thin, red veins.
“Is there any way we can track that Antonov?” asked Avery.
Mockingbird explained that while normally it’d be simple to track a commercial or private aircraft by its registration number, Rosaviatsiya—Russia’s Federal Air Transport Agency—did not make GlobeEx flight data, plans, and records publicly accessible.
This wasn’t a problem. NSA would start snooping and try to obtain audio recordings or transcriptions of radio communications between control towers and pilots during landings and take-offs, and target airports frequented by this aircraft. Information from other sources Mockingbird utilized indicated that this particular jet had been recently spotted at Minsk National and Chelyabinsk International airports, in Belarus and Russia, respectively.
“We don’t have time to sit around waiting for NSA,” Avery said impatiently. He didn’t need to mention that trying to obtain anything from No Such Agency, as the National Security Agency was colloquially known, was slightly worse than pulling teeth. NSA would be grateful for the lead, and then they’d keep everything they gathered to themselves.
But Mockingbird had alternative avenues to pursue, turning to open source intelligence.
“There are websites where aviation enthusiasts keep track of planes coming in and out of airports all over the world. Some also monitor aircr
aft with blocked flight plans. These are usually private jets belonging to politicians, diplomats, corporations, celebrities or anyone else journalists have an interest in, including less savory characters. I’ve put in requests to look out for a GlobeEx An-22 with the RA8564G tail number. Let’s wait and see if anything pans out.”
___
A half hour later, as Avery started drifting to sleep, his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text. His eyes snapped open, and his hand lashed out to scoop the cell phone off the floor near his cot. In response to Avery’s earlier inquiry, the message from Jack simply stated: “FOB Chapman; 2007.”
Forward Operating Base Chapman was an old airfield in Khost, Afghanistan, near the Pakistani border, turned into a CIA base. In 2009, one of the CIA agents, Humam Khalil al-Balawi, a Jordanian doctor who was really an al-Qaeda double agent sent to infiltrate American intelligence networks, detonated a suicide vest at FOB Chapman. The base chief there didn’t want to offend al-Balawi by appearing to not trust him, so security never searched al-Balawi. Consequently, seven CIA officers and contractors, an Afghan agent, and a Jordanian intelligence officer were killed.
Cramer was base chief at Chapman from 2007-2008.
FIFTEEN
Langley
It was 8:35PM Tuesday in Washington, DC, 5:35AM Wednesday in Dushanbe. The Op Center on the seventh floor of the George Herbert Walker Bush Center for Intelligence’s Old Headquarters Building flourished with activity. Over a dozen men and women sat around the long, glossy conference table, their attention fixated on the multiple wall-mounted, high definition flat-screen monitors. The monitors displayed the real time feed from the unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV) the air force had tasked to this operation.
The UAVs focused close on the convoy of four Kamaz Ural-4320 trucks travelling down a strip of dusty, potholed Afghan highway. Another monitor displayed a digital map of southeastern Tajikistan and northern Afghanistan, with moving colored dots representing the positions of the various assets in play, identified by chyron labels.