The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  He climbed to his knees, ignoring the jolts of pain shooting through his back. He got behind the machine gun again and squeezed off a quick burst at a gunman running over a rooftop. Then Justin moved his aim to another silhouette that appeared through a side door. Wrapped in a grayish robe, she aimed a rifle at Justin, who had to return fire.

  The driver swung the steering wheel again. As the truck entered into a new, wider alley, most of the gunfire died down. Justin still held onto the machine gun, swinging it left and right, as much as the mounting pivot allowed him.

  “We’re at the edge of town,” Ali said.

  Justin nodded. He did not look back, but he hoped the rest of the Peshmergas and especially the overwatch team with their long-range snipers was covering their exit. He waited for more jihadists but none came into his line of sight.

  Gunshots echoed in the distance, coming from the front of the convoy. Ali turned his head. “The checkpoint.”

  Justin nodded.

  The driver slowed down as the convoy zigzagged around the dirt piles. Then the truck picked up speed as they began to descend downhill and leave the town behind.

  Justin exchanged his machine gun for his assault rifle. He reloaded a fresh magazine, then sat down next to Ali. “How are you?”

  “All right.” He glanced at his bloodied leg. “I need to find a doctor to have a look at that.”

  “Yes, but before we do that, I’ve got to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “When you were struck by shrapnel, you cursed.”

  Ali gave Justin a puzzled look. “I don’t get it.”

  “You cursed in Russian. Are you Russian?”

  Ali did not reply right away. He held Justin’s eyes for a long moment and did not blink. Then he grinned and whispered, “And if I were?”

  Justin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me, but I want the truth.”

  Ali nodded. He glanced at the two Peshmergas and placed his hand on the right side of the neck of the nearest one. He felt for a pulse for a few moments, then shook his head. “This one is gone.”

  The other Peshmerga moaned and stirred, but kept his eyes closed.

  Ali leaned closer to Justin. “I haven’t told this to anyone,” he whispered. “But back there, you saved my life. I’m GRU. Spetsnaz.”

  Justin sighed and cursed under his breath. Exactly what I needed. Russian military special operations forces.

  Chapter Fifteen

  January 14

  Kadjalah, thirty-five miles south of the Bashaweh Turkish base

  Northern Iraq

  After barely escaping Al-Akral by the skin of their teeth, the convoy continued toward Kadjahal. Justin was not expecting the remaining jihadists to follow them in hot pursuit, but he also did not want to risk discovery if the trucks stopped or slowed down. Initially, he feared a mortar attack. Even when fired blindly, errant mortars could be devastating to the trucks. But no such attack occurred. Maybe the jihadists were too decimated or disorganized to mount such an attack. Or maybe they did not have mortars. Whatever the reason, Justin was glad no shells came raining down on their heads.

  Once he was somewhat convinced the convoy was out of danger, he wanted to be with Azade, but that would have to wait until they had returned to Justin’s base of operations in Kadjalah. He had checked on her and talked with her over the radio. She had suffered no wounds during the exfiltration.

  Another matter equally pressing was Ali’s role in fighting against ISIS on the side of the Peshmergas. Why was a Spetsnaz operative dispatched to the region? What was his mission? Was he alone or part of a team? What happened to his team? So many questions sizzling in Justin’s mind. But he could not ask those right away. Ali was sitting next to Justin, but so was one of the Peshmergas. Shrapnel had cut through his leg and shoulder, but he was alive and would very likely recover with only scars. If Justin and Ali spoke in Russian, that might raise even more suspicions in the Peshmerga’s mind, provided he did not know that language, a fact unknown to Justin.

  So he sighed and tried to clear his mind of troubling thoughts. He looked through his night-vision goggles, taking in the entire broken landscape. It was quiet, except for the occasional gunfire in the distance—toward the border with Turkey in the north—and tracer rounds punctuating the night’s black sky. Justin thought about Karolin, and how she was doing this night. Maybe she’s out running an op, just like me? Or maybe she’s in bed and sleeping and dreaming of me as I’m thinking of her?

  Then Justin’s mind went to Vale and the people he was looking for. How come everyone seems to have vanished? Who are they afraid of? He frowned as a worrisome thought darkened his mind. What if someone paid them to disappear?

  “What’s going through your mind?” Ali asked.

  Justin tipped his head toward Ali, sitting to his right, in the middle of the truck bed with his back resting against the cabin. “I think you know the answer.”

  Ali nodded. “I . . . eh, I may have an idea.” He grinned.

  “Yes, it is exactly as you’re thinking.”

  The Peshmerga cast a confused glance at Ali and then at Justin. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  Justin shrugged. “An inside joke. Nothing of import.” He gestured at Ali’s leg. “How does it feel?”

  “Throbbing above the knee. My foot’s getting numb.”

  Justin nodded. He had tourniqueted and patched up Ali’s leg to stop the blood flow. “We have a good doctor in Kadjalah. He’ll fix both of you up.”

  “You too. You got hit pretty good.”

  Justin shrugged. “A scratch. The vest took most of it.”

  Ali shook his head. “Are all . . . Americans . . . reckless like you?”

  Justin grinned. “They must be. See all the wars they’ve started or will start soon?”

  The Peshmerga laughed. “He’s not American. Justin is Canadian.”

  Ali peered at Justin. “Canadian, eh?”

  “You got it.”

  “You don’t look the JTF2 type.”

  Justin shook his head. “I’m not with JTF2, no.” But Carrie used to be one of them.

  Joint Task Force 2 was the elite counter-terrorism unit of the Canadian Armed Forces.

  Ali nodded. “Then CSOR?”

  Justin shrugged. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Ali grinned. “Okay, so you’re not with the Canadian Special Operations Regiment. I get it.” He winked.

  Justin decided it was not necessary to correct Ali, or whatever was the real name of the Spetsnaz operative.

  The Peshmerga asked, “How about you? Where did you come from?”

  Justin smiled. “Yes, Ali. How did you get here?”

  Ali gave Justin a well-knowing look. He shrugged. “I’m originally from Basra, but work brought me up here.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I’m a driver. Truck driver.”

  Justin nodded. Ali had a great cover story. Basra was an Iraqi city down in the southeast, near the border with Kuwait and Iran. Very few, if any, Peshmergas would have any relatives in Basra, so they could not poke holes in Ali’s cover story. And his skills as a driver were a staple of Spetsnaz training.

  Ali continued, “I drove oil trucks when trade was booming with Turkey and Syria. But business went sideways, and I got caught in the net. I’m thankful to Allah I’m still alive.”

  “When were you captured?” Justin asked.

  “What date is today?”

  “January 14.”

  “Yes, well, over four weeks then. I was captured on December 10.”

  “How did it happen?” the Peshmerga asked.

  Ali told the story of an ambush against an oil truck convoy. It sounded genuine, and he poured out his soul onto it. Justin knew Ali had probably recounted the story one too many times, and undoubtedly it grew better and bigger every time he repeated it. But Justin wondered if he would be able to tell the story was made up if Ali had not admitted his true identity. He
was very good. His accent had all but disappeared. Perhaps the pressure of being in the midst of a firefight.

  Justin followed Ali’s narration, but his mind wandered to Vale, then to Karolin. He had not told her about Azade and had mentioned Anna only in passing. But after tonight and the raid to save Azade and the other hostages, he and Karolin needed to have a heart-to-heart conversation. But I first need to figure things out myself. He nodded to himself, then shrugged. Would I have tried to rescue these people if Azade wasn’t among them? I’m not sure I would have gone to that extent. I . . . it’s not that I still love her, if I . . . if I ever did. But I do feel something for her. What . . . what is it exactly?

  “Justin, hey, Justin,” Ali’s voice pulled him from his daydreaming.

  “Yes, what?”

  “You’re drifting away, man.”

  Justin shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll hear the story again, when, eh . . . when you and I talk.”

  Ali rolled his eyes. “Of course, we will.”

  They did not talk much until they reached the outskirts of Kadjalah. A group of Peshmergas was waiting for them. They had brought a doctor and two nurses, who began to attend to the wounded. Justin checked on Rojan. He was unconscious because of the blood loss, but the doctor was hopeful for a full recovery. Justin’s experience with abdominal gunshot wounds had shown him the opposite, but he hoped the doctor was right. Rojan was young and strong, his body chiseled with muscles. If they had taken the brunt of the impact, and internal organs had suffered only minor trauma, Rojan could be up and running in a few weeks.

  Justin left Ali in the line-up waiting for the doctor’s care, but not before asking two trusted Peshmergas to keep an eye on Ali. He would try to disappear as soon as given the chance. Justin would have done the same, in a similar situation. Then he made his way among the vehicles to find Azade.

  She was talking to a small group of female Peshmerga fighters. One of them, an older woman with long grayish hair who could have been the age of Azade’s mother, seemed to be giving her some kind-hearted advice. Azade was nodding and holding onto the woman’s arms.

  Justin observed the interaction from a distance, wondering whether he should wait for another moment. Before he could make a decision, Azade looked in his direction. Their eyes met, and a tear ran down her face. “Justin, Justin,” she said.

  He ran toward her. “Azade, how—”

  She fell into his arms for a deep embrace.

  Justin held her tight, feeling her body’s warmth against his. Her heart was racing, and more tears flowed down her cheeks. “Azade, you’re safe, you’re safe now.”

  “Oh, Justin, I was so—”

  “Shhhhh, it’s over, Azade. Now you’re here, safe.”

  She nodded and drew in a deep breath. She broke the embrace and began to wipe her eyes. Azade gave him a small smile and a kind look as she stepped away from the group. “But how . . . how are you?”

  “I’m okay. Back with the agency.”

  Azade’s eyes sparked even though the moisture was still there. “Wow, that’s awesome, Justin. You . . . I remember you longing for that.”

  “Yes, it’s all good now. But tell me about you.”

  Azade shrugged. “Not much has changed in our land since you left. Still fighting, bloodshed, pain and misery.”

  Justin nodded.

  Azade continued, “In a sense, everything is the same, but then, nothing is the same. Now we have the Turks breathing down our necks. Russians and Iranians roaming on all sides. America is also re-engaging, albeit from a distance. I’m sure they’ll have troops on the ground in no time.”

  Justin nodded again. “Yes, it’s only Tomahawk cruise missiles now, but it won’t be long before they start with JDAMs.”

  Azade nodded. She had seen the Joint Direct Attack Munition kits that transformed conventional or dumb bombs into smart ones, increasing their precision against all targets. “Yes, as if this mess wasn’t complicated enough last year.”

  Justin gave her a small smile. “But here you are, alive and well, as resilient as ever.”

  Azade returned the smile. “We Kurds are a tough people to kill. Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, everyone tried to annihilate us. They failed. And they’ll fail again. They can’t crush the will for freedom of an entire people.”

  “They can’t.”

  The Kurdish people of almost forty million was scattered throughout those countries and the European diaspora. As in the case of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, a long-lasting solution would come only through peace talks, not all-out war. At war no one would win, but for sure everyone would lose.

  Azade placed her hand on Justin’s arm. “What . . . what brings you here, Justin?”

  “The past, sins of the past.” He sighed, unsure how much he wanted to tell Azade. “I . . . A few of the things I did the last time I was here have come to light. I’ve got to deal with the fallout.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” She stepped closer to Justin.

  He wanted to say no, but Azade’s look of determination left no room for his objections. She gazed deep into his eyes, and he could tell she was longing for a way to express her gratitude for everything he had done for her. “Eh, I’m not . . . I’m not sure, but I’ll think of something. But shouldn’t you first re—”

  Azade cut him off. “Rest is for the weak.” She shrugged. “We’ll rest when we die. Now, what would you have me do?”

  “I need to go to Erbil, to find a few people, who seem to have disappeared.”

  Azade smiled. “The key word being ‘seem.’”

  “Correct. I’ll give you the names and last known locations. And there’s money to pry open lips.”

  Azade shook her head. “After what you did for me and those people, there will be no need for money to change hands. Do you have a ride and escort to Erbil?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you do now. Give me half an hour, and we can roll out.”

  “How about we make it an hour? I still need to talk to a couple of people. And we’ll meet by the trucks.”

  “Of course. That’s even better, gives us a chance to get something to eat.” She smiled and drew even closer to Justin.

  “What is it, Azade?”

  She glanced around, then leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Justin’s lips. Before he could say anything, Azade had pulled back. “I wanted to do that ever since I saw you, at the—” Her eyes began to well up. “Thank you for—”

  “Shhhhh, it’s all good, Azade. You’re safe now.” Justin held her in his strong arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  January 14

  Kadjalah, thirty-five miles south of the Bashaweh Turkish base

  Northern Iraq

  After Azade left to make arrangements for their trip to Erbil, Justin thought about calling his boss. But there was not much in terms of good news. Maybe I’ll have something useful after I talk to Ali.

  Justin found him talking to one of the Peshmergas that Justin had assigned to keep an eye on Ali. The Peshmerga seemed to be enjoying the conversation, and Ali was a great storyteller, illustrating his accounts with very animated gestures. “Can I talk to you, Ali?” Justin said and nodded at the Peshmerga.

  “Sure.” Ali turned back to his listener. “We’ll finish up when I come back.”

  “Yes, I still have to tell you about the time when I was in Damascus.”

  “By all means,” Ali said.

  He followed Justin until they were about thirty yards or so away from the nearest houses and people. Justin sat on a flat rock, stretched his legs, and placed his rifle over his lap. “So, what’s your name?”

  “It’s Zinoviy Polzin.” He sat next to Justin. “And I don’t appreciate those two men following me.” He cocked his head toward the group of Peshmergas huddled around the doctor’s station.

  Justin shrugged. “Just in case.”

  “In case of what? I wasn’t going to run away.”

  “Why not?”

&n
bsp; “We have unfinished business. Or did I misunderstand you?”

  “No, you didn’t. I still need to talk to you.”

  Zinoviy nodded and shifted his body so he could better face Justin. “Fine, but before you start, I want you to know that I can only tell you so much. It’s not a sign of disrespect, for I appreciate the rescue. I truly do.”

  Justin nodded. “I understand; you’re an operative, running a secret mission. Correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How much can you tell me about your op?”

  Zinoviy did not answer right away. “I can tell you that it doesn’t involve Canada or your agency, whichever one that is.”

  “Who does it involve and why?”

  Zinoviy again thought about his reply. “It . . . the op involves some lost, well, lost is not the correct term, let’s say ‘misplaced’ . . . eh, items. My job is to find them.”

  “And it involves ISIS?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “Whoever is fighting ISIS.”

  “The Peshmergas?”

  “No.”

  “Iranians?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Justin nodded. “And these ‘items,’ are they goods or people?”

  Zinoviy shook his head. “I can’t answer that,” he said, and his lip curled up in a snarl.

  “Assuming it is goods, are they military or—”

  Zinoviy cut him off. “Justin, I don’t want to lie to you, but I will if you keep pushing.”

  “They are military. Russian missiles that may end up in ISIS hands?”

  “No, you’re way off the mark, Justin,” Zinoviy said tersely. The corner of his left eye twitched. It was a small, almost imperceptible twitch, but Justin noticed it. Is that my hint he’s lying to me?

  “All right, maybe they’re not missiles. Some other sophisticated weapon system?”