by Marc Cameron
He took the Durango as far as he could, eventually finding himself stopped by a swimming pool behind the apartments. Out and running immediately, he scrambled over the rusted metal wall along the train tracks. He tore the knee on his khakis when he hit the gravel, but his predatory drive put him past caring. He hit the woods at an all-out run, crashing through dense greenery of oak shrubs and sassafras, half sliding, half bounding down the side hill. The thump of evening traffic on the GW Parkway covered the noise of his approach.
Montgomery slowed a hair as the vegetation began to thin and he neared the edge of the woods. Alpha was to his left, still running as if pursued by demons, just about to go under the bridge. Montgomery dug in, sprinting up the grassy hill to GW Parkway, where he waved at oncoming cars like a madman. Traffic was never good inside the Beltway, but Sunday evening gave him a relative break, and he was able to scramble across in fits and starts like the frog in the video game without getting squished. Energized at having reached the high ground in advance of his target, he stepped into the woods where the Crystal City access T’d into the main trail and waited for Alpha to run directly to him.
He drew his SIG Sauer, but there was no need.
Alpha stopped dead in her tracks and raised her hands when she saw the badge hanging from the chain around his neck.
“My name is Elizaveta Bobkova. I am the Russian attaché for economic affairs and I have diplomatic immunity.”
Gun up, Montgomery kept his distance.
Without being ordered, Bobkova knelt on the grass, put both hands on top of her head, and crossed her ankles. She knew the drill. An Arlington PD patrol unit pulled to the shoulder of the road and stopped, pistol out, surveying the scene from behind the safety of his engine block.
Montgomery tapped the badge around his neck. “Secret Service. I could use some help here.”
Two more APD cars showed up in as many minutes, more relaxed with the situation now that they had superior numbers. Montgomery holstered his sidearm and let the officers, who were accustomed to working as contact and cover, take Elizaveta Bobkova into physical custody.
“Nice Glock,” Montgomery said when one of the Arlington officers passed him the G43 they took from her waistband. “Small, but a little much for an economic attaché.”
Bobkova cocked her head to one side. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Her chest heaved from exertion and nerves. It was getting dark now, and the blue and red lights of the squad cars flashed off her passive face. “You are very large man,” she said, her Russian accent stronger than it had been earlier. Her eyes were almost shut, as if she were trying to figure out some riddle. “I do not mean to say fat. You are large in good way. But I cannot believe a man as large as you caught up to me on foot. It is . . . remarkable . . .”
44
Urbano da Rocha lay on his back in a plastic lounge chair, reading a car magazine and daydreaming about the new Bugatti he could now afford to buy. An intense midday sun reflected off the white deck and dazzled the blue water of the pool. A heavy gold chain lay across his hairless chest, glinting along with the buckle of his swimsuit. Skintight silk covered with gold brocade, the suit was modeled after taleguilla—the breeches worn by matadors. It was complete with tassels—called machos—and da Rocha thought it looked ridiculous, but Lucile had bought the suit for him in Seville. As with the actual taleguilla of a matador, the suit required da Rocha to arrange his partes nobles to one side or the other. In the case of the matador, this was away from the side he used to confront the bull. A wise choice, considering what the sharp horns of a Spanish fighting bull would do to those “noble parts.” The suit might look foppish, but it certainly sparked some interesting games in the bedroom. He’d hardly gotten a moment’s sleep since the deal with the Russians went through.
Killing always brought out the best in Lucile Fournier.
Groaning now, he set the magazine aside and sniffed the air, taking in the odor of cut grass on the rising heat from the fields below the eighteenth-century villa—his fields and his villa. He gazed down the hill at the olive grove below—his olive grove. And it was only the beginning. Oh, this place was well and good by Portuguese standards, but now he could buy an island of his own if he wished. His estates would dot the globe. If the Russians could be trusted to keep their word—and why shouldn’t they—then there would be many more deals to come. Not too shabby for a former Ochoa errand boy.
He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and let his head fall sideways to watch Lucile’s tan body arc off the diving board and enter the water with hardly a burble. She was that way with everything, precise, perfect. It seemed she hardly even had to practice. She merely conceived an image of what she wanted to do, replayed it over and over it in her mind until she could picture the most minute detail—and then did it. Killing Hugo Gaspard had been da Rocha’s idea. How to do it had been hers. She suggested it be public, demonstrating to others in the business that there was a new player in town who was not to be underestimated. Anyone who could murder the feared Frenchman in broad daylight—in front of his armed bodyguards, no less—was surely someone to be reckoned with. The same with Don Felipe. She’d taken special care procuring the toxin and devised a method of delivery that could be carried out under the nose of the Russians without causing them to get overly nervous.
Shielding his eyes against the blinding sun, da Rocha whistled at Lucile. It was not a catcall or a summons. Lucile was not the sort of woman who answered to a snapped finger. It was a whistle of awe.
Both hands on the deck, she pressed herself up and out of the pool, swinging her leg up in a fluid motion that would have been awkward for most people. She accomplished it with perfect strength and grace. Like a goddess just appearing on earth, her wet skin glowed under the golden evening light. She tipped her head to get all her hair on one side, and then used both hands to wring out the excess water. She wore the same black two-piece she’d had on when she’d shot Gaspard, with the same alluring tear in the cloth over her buttock.
“It is so hot today,” she said. “You should come in the water.”
“I will,” he said.
Her face fell into a frowning pout. She stomped her foot before turning at the edge of the pool, arching her back, looking over her shoulder to taunt him with the ripped swimsuit. “Do not wait too long. The water is making me wrinkle.”
“Just a tiny bit of work to do first, my little prune. You know, banking matters.” He reached for the laptop on the teak table beside his lounge chair and opened it up. Lucile had kept him so busy that he’d not logged on since returning home. It took only a moment to connect to Wi-Fi.
45
Sixteen hours and three layovers after leaving Seville, the aging Ariana 737 carrying Jack Ryan, Jr., and Dom Caruso made a rapid descent toward the Herat airport, south of the city. There were few missile attacks of late, but the pilots didn’t seem to want to try their luck by staying in the air too long at low altitude. The other passengers rocked sleepily in their seats, reading or chatting happily with seatmates, apparently used to the rapid descents. Strong winds buffeted the airplane even after they’d landed, causing it to shake as the pilot took them down the runway toward the sad-looking terminal.
Ryan rolled his neck from side to side, doing little to get rid of the kinks brought on by long hours of sitting, and more than that, the anticipation of seeing Ysabel Kashani. He beat his head against the tattered headrest.
“I swear I saw a cloud of dust fly up from the upholstery when we touched down.”
Caruso rubbed his face and leaned forward to look out the window. “This whole place is a dust cloud. I can already feel the grit between my teeth. You think they have any other colors here besides brown?”
The lone Ariana flight attendant stood well back in the galley as the passengers deplaned. Her smile was friendly enough, but she said nothing to the passengers, mainly Afghan men, as they filed p
ast her.
Apart from the constant shove of a wind that seemed made more of dust than air, the first thing Ryan noticed was the smell. The odor of cooked meat and burning plastic reminded him of a time when he was nine or ten and had hidden his G.I. Joe on the barbecue grill. His dad had lit the burners without checking under the lid.
Jack wondered about snipers as he walked across the tarmac but forgot about danger altogether the moment he got inside the unnaturally quiet terminal and saw Ysabel. She wore a loose cotton dress in charcoal-gray and a blue headscarf. He’d expected her to be in a T-shirt and tight jeans, like the last time he saw her, but her clothing was relatively progressive for a severely conservative place like western Afghanistan, where many women wore a burka.
Two men stood beside her, glaring hard at the newcomers. One was darker than the other, with a head that was very close to being shaved and a long pointy beard that reminded Ryan of a billy goat. His head was up, hands at his sides, shoulders hunched forward in a slight crouch, as if spoiling for a fight. The other was taller, better fed, but with an intense sadness around his dark eyes. Like the first man, he had an olive complexion, but this one had a full head of hair, combed straight back, dark, but with a rusty tint in the right light. Ryan suspected he was the Russian. Neither man smiled. For that matter, neither did Ysabel.
She simply nodded in greeting.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “The van is this way.”
Caruso and Ryan were shown to a battered minivan across the street in the small lot, a warm dust-filled wind whipping them the entire way. The guy with the buzz cut introduced himself as Hamid as he slid open the back door. He left them to get in the van themselves and walked around to get behind the wheel, apparently uninterested in learning their names. Ysabel sat up front in the passenger seat. The release button that would have allowed someone to reach the rearmost seat was broken, forcing the remaining three men to squeeze in together on the ratty bench seat in the middle of the van. Dovzhenko took the far window, directly behind Hamid, and Jack took the middle, riding the hump. He didn’t mind. It gave him a more unobstructed view of Ysabel.
He leaned forward, hands on his knees. Sweating and more than a little nervous at seeing her again after so long.
“I’m surprised you didn’t give me one of those Indiana Jones slap-to-the-yap welcomes when you saw me.”
Ysabel gave him a sullen side eye without turning her head. “Oh, I would have,” she said, completely serious. “But public displays of affection are frowned upon in Afghanistan.”
* * *
—
Hamid took the Kandahar–Herat Highway north past the Afghan National Army Base, turning west before entering Herat proper. They drove past fields of saffron crocus and poppies, and orchards of almond and date and pistachio. Stands of willow and cottonwood trees flourished in the valley, in stark contrast to the barren hills.
Jack tried to make small talk, but Ysabel gave only curt answers, so the conversation never went anywhere. He couldn’t help but notice that she hardly even looked at him, and never met his eye.
“You’ve been here a year?”
She nodded but explained no further.
“How’s Avram?”
“My father passed away,” Ysabel said. “Jack. I want you to listen to me very carefully. We do not have to catch up. You do not have to pretend to be interested in my life.”
“Ysabel—”
She cut him off. “I never would have called and taken you away from your busy schedule had it not been absolutely necessary.”
Caruso bounced a fist on Jack’s knee, showing his fraternal support.
“Look,” Ryan said, “I get that you’re pissed at me. But are you sure you want to do this here, in front of everyone?”
“Do what?” Ysabel said, still staring forward. “I am only apologizing for taking you away from your busy life.”
Jack fell back in his seat, wedging himself between the two other men. “Suit yourself. It’s good to see you, too.” He turned to the Russian. “What’s your story? Did you get in some kind of trouble in—”
Ysabel wheeled in her seat, finally looking Ryan in the eye. “What was I to you, Jack? Were there other Iranian women after me? Do you have some Persian women fetish?”
“I thought we parted on good terms,” Jack whispered. “Your father made it very clear that your safety was paramount—and that any association with me put you in danger.”
“My father?” She spat, fuming now. “You would blame this on my father when he is dead and cannot defend himself?”
Jack looked to Caruso for help but got nothing. A silence fell over the interior of the van until Dovzhenko cleared his throat.
“I appreciate you coming,” he said. “I have information you might find useful.”
“I look forward to hearing it,” Ryan said.
More silence.
Hamid kept glancing in the rearview mirror, which, for some reason, was seriously beginning to piss Ryan off.
“Can I help you with something?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Hamid said.
“You keep looking at me like you have a question.”
“No,” the Afghan said again. “Merely an observation.”
“And what’s that?”
“I find myself surrounded by invaders.”
Ysabel looked sideways. “What are you talking about?”
“Persia, Russia, the United States—you have all invaded Afghanistan at one time or another. And now you sit here arguing among yourselves as if I am not even present.” Hamid shrugged. “The history of my country in microcosm.”
“I’m not invading anybody,” Ryan said. “I was invited.”
“How could you, Jack?” Ysabel said, ignoring her bodyguard. “You, my father, you were both supposed to be these enlightened men. How could you presume to make such decisions for me?”
“I almost got you killed,” Jack said.
“You give yourself too much credit,” Ysabel said. “I—”
Hamid cut her off. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he was not. “But there are three motorbikes moving up behind us at a high rate of speed.”
Ryan, Caruso, and the Russian twisted in their seats to get a look behind them. The thick cloud of orange dust boiling up behind the van made it almost impossible to see anything.
“Are they armed?” Jack asked.
Hamid gave a grunting nod. “Everyone is armed. This is opium country. The Taliban are active not far to the south. Smugglers and bandits are as common as fleas here.”
“That’s odd,” Jack said. “That a bodyguard would take us through an area thick with opium smugglers.”
Hamid laughed, the way someone would laugh at a sophomoric child. “You are in Afghanistan. There are only two types of areas—unsafe and very unsafe.”
“Have you got any guns in the van?” Caruso asked.
Ysabel leaned forward and pulled an Uzi from under her seat. She passed it to Jack, keeping the muzzle down.
Hamid glanced in the rearview. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
Jack scoffed. “I do.”
“I only ask,” Hamid said, “because they fire from an open bolt, and I have seen more than a few Americans shoot holes in the floor believing the weapon is safe, when it is actually ready to fire.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m familiar with how to work an Uzi.”
“I don’t want to come across as a whiner,” Caruso said, leaning across Jack and between the front bucket seats. “But do you have a gun for me?”
Ysabel passed him a Beretta 92 but kept a Kalashnikov pointed down between her knees. She looked at Dovzhenko. “I am sorry, but that’s all we have.”
The Russian held up a hand. “It is fine,” he said. “If things get b
ad, I will take one of theirs, whichever becomes available first.”
“They are about to pass us,” Hamid said, eyes glued to his side mirror. “They have not unslung their rifles.”
One of the motorcycles roared by, throwing up a rooster tail of dust but ignoring the van altogether.
The second bike passed, following the first. An AK-47 rifle was slung diagonally across the rider’s back.
The road narrowed some, curving sharply to the north as it followed the meandering course of the Hari River. The third bike kept to the rear, biding his time while his two friends drew farther and farther away. The river straightened, as did the road, and the bike moved up immediately, slowing a hair as he came abeam with the driver’s door.
Ryan heard a faint clunk, as if they’d kicked up a rock. The motorcycle rolled on the throttle and sped ahead.
“Sticky bomb!” Hamid said, throwing open the door in an attempt to rid the van of the magnetic device.
It was no use.
The blast lifted the front of the vehicle completely off the ground. One moment Hamid was there, behind the steering wheel, the next his seat was empty, torn to rags. The van lurched violently, the right wheel falling into the ditch that ran along the road and then rolling on its side as it slid along the gravel with a horrific squeal of metal on stone.
With no seat directly in front of him, Jack was thrown forward during the wreck, landing on top of Ysabel in a tangle of arms and legs and machine guns. Both of them were pressed against the shattered window that was now the bottom of the van and wedged between the dash and the bucket seat. Feet pointing skyward, Jack’s weight was on his shoulders and he essentially lay on his back in Ysabel’s lap.