by Marc Cameron
Now he was slumped on the side of this isolated dirt road somewhere southwest of Herat, covered in mud and blood and bits of broken glass. The charred remains of the van steamed and smoked behind him. There’d been no explosion when the fuel tank caught fire, just a great whoosh and intense heat. The wind had whipped the flames and smoke into a black pyre that was surely visible for miles, but no one came to investigate. Caruso may as well have been on the face of the moon. Not a soul within a thousand miles cared enough to look for him. Hell, no one even knew he was missing. Jack was gone, snatched away along with Ysabel and the Russian. Life was cheap in this part of the world, and if Jack wasn’t dead already, it was only a matter of time.
The bandits hadn’t seen Dom, belly-down in the muddy ditchwater, or they would have taken him, too.
He dabbed at the side of his head, feeling the bristles of singed hair and blisters of the second-degree burns above his ear. Half his shirt on that side had been burned away as well. The incessant wind coated him in dust, as if he’d been rolled in yellow flour, making it impossible to accurately assess his injuries. One eye was swollen shut, his vision blurred. He could stand, though it made him feel like he might throw up. Both hands seemed functional enough for gross motor skills, but they shook so badly from shock that he’d likely have shot himself in the foot had he been able to find a pistol.
He allowed himself a two-minute pity party and then stood, realizing only then that he’d somehow lost his shoes while crawling through the mud. No one was coming for him. Be your own rescue, John Clark always said. That old son of a bitch had a mantra for everything. Caruso took a tentative step on wobbly legs, wincing from the rocks that cut his feet. Facing the wind, he laughed out loud in spite of the situation.
Pain from the burns and sprains and cuts had yet to overwhelm him, but it was only a matter of time. He had to get to a phone. To tell NATO troops or CIA or somebody with big guns and eyes in the sky that Ryan needed help. Caruso realized that as bad as this shit sandwich was, Jack’s was far worse. At least Caruso was free, such as it was. Hamid had passed an Afghan National Army base after they’d left the airport, somewhere before he’d turned onto this road. Caruso would walk all night, crawl if he had to. He laughed again. Hell, crawling would probably be faster.
He had maybe an hour until dark—ink dark. The dangers would be exponential once the sun went down, but at least he would be able to hide.
And so he walked, falling forward, catching himself, and then falling forward again. It was painfully slow, but it was progress. A low whine above the moan of wind caught his attention. He held up a soot-black hand to shield his good eye from the dust.
Another motorcycle. Damn it. The rider had surely seen him.
Caruso stepped to the edge of the muddy ditch, closed his eyes, and waited.
* * *
—
Jack awoke unable to feel his hands. He could, however, feel every bone-jarring bump and pothole against his shoulders and hips. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but long enough for it to get dark. The dusty bed of the white Bongo truck provided an unyielding platform, and the three prisoners slammed against it as if on the end of a flail as they sped down the road. Jack thought they were going northwest, but the shifting wind and the inability to see the sun from behind the short rails of the truck made it impossible to be sure. It didn’t matter. He had no friends for miles in any direction. Ryan wanted to think Caruso escaped from beneath the burning van, but his rational brain—or what was left of it—told him the odds were against that. Positive attitude was essential for survival, but the bald truth was that they were all as good as dead. Depending on who’d taken them prisoner, burning to death in a muddy ditch might even be the quicker way to go.
The cab light in the truck was on, illuminating Ysabel’s face, slack, inches from his. Her scarf was gone. Her head lolled, long black hair pooling against the filthy truck bed. Her clothing was torn, her shoulder bloodied, but her face was amazingly clean. A crystalline trickle of saliva hung from her open mouth. For a time, Jack thought she was already dead, but they wouldn’t have bothered to bring her if that were true, let alone tie her up. The three of them were bound hand and foot, faces pressed to the bare metal, heads toward the rear, which only made the ride worse. They’d not been hooded, which was worrisome, since these guys didn’t care if they were identified or not.
The bouncing grew less pronounced as the Bongo truck slowed, making a turn.
Ysabel’s eyes flicked open. She swallowed hard, coal-black eyes darting back and forth as she tried to get her bearings.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Jack tried to shake his head, but found the movement made him sick to his stomach. “Not your fault,” he said. “Let’s just see what happens.”
“You’re hurt, Jack,” Ysabel said. “You may not know it, but you are really hurt.”
The truck slowed.
“Listen to me,” Jack whispered. “My passport says my name is Joe Peterson. Whatever happens, you cannot call me Jack. Understand?”
She nodded. “Joe,” she repeated. “I understand.”
“Remind Dovzhenko.”
Ryan heard the growl of motorcycles as the Bongo truck slowed and made another turn. They drove behind a tall fence, and the howling, dust-filled wind was suddenly quiet, replaced by the pleasant smell of new-mown grass and wet earth after a rain. Date palms rose in the shadows on either side of the narrow road. Weeping willow fronds scraped the side of the truck. The barricade wall was tall enough that only the tops of the tallest trees swayed with the wind.
Jack slid forward when the Bongo squeaked to a stop. Men barked in Pashto or Dari, he couldn’t tell which. The tailgate fell open and rough hands grabbed first Ysabel, dragging her out by the shoulders. She pretended to be asleep, and the men laughed, slapping her almost playfully on the face. Ryan counted five of them—two from the Bongo and the three murderous bastards on the motorcycles. All of them wore dusty shalwar kameez. Jack guessed them to be in their twenties or early thirties, lean and intense. Two of them grabbed Jack next, dragging him out as well. They looked at his face, shaking their heads.
“You speak English?” Jack asked. He wasn’t so much naïve as to believe he could depend on the kindness of these strangers, but he wanted them to see him as another human being and not simply another neck for their knives.
They just looked at him, stone-faced and gaunt, as if sucking in their cheeks.
Jack and the others were taken to a covered veranda, what would have been called a lanai in Florida or Hawaii. Persian rugs covered a concrete pad maybe twenty-by-twenty-feet square. Thick cushions were arranged around a low wooden table in the middle of the space. Earthenware pots and intricately stacked rock fountains sat among elaborate shrubs and flower baskets. A fire popped and crackled in a small pit not fifteen feet from the table, just off the edge of the concrete.
A deep voice said something in Russian, and a tall man dressed in a clean shin-length robe called a perahan stepped from the doorway. He wore a black turban common to the Taliban. His beard, black as the turban, was long and full. Stylish glasses with an orange Nike swoosh on the earpiece perched at the end of his nose.
Dovzhenko said something to him in Russian, prompting the man to turn to Jack.
“I told him we must get you cleaned up,” he said in a decidedly British accent.
“You speak English,” Jack observed.
“I do,” the man said. He gave a quizzical look. “My men told me you spoke English. So you are not Russian as well?”
“He is,” Jack said. “I only just arrived.” He thought of mentioning Dom but decided against it. If he was dead, he was dead. There was no sense telling these guys they’d forgotten one of their kidnap victims.
“Ah,” the man said. “I see. I am sorry for your treatment. A necessary evil.” He looked more closely at
Jack now, and then turned to bark more orders at one of the other men. “Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Please see to my friends.”
The man sighed and then stepped back inside his house. He returned a moment later with a tortoiseshell hand mirror, which he held up in front of Jack’s face.
“You may feel fine,” he said. “But I can assure you, that is only because you are in shock. We will see to your wounds at once.” The man gave him a benevolent smile. “After all, you are not worth much to me with your ear half torn from your head.”
* * *
—
Ryan didn’t know which bothered him more, the fact that he’d crawled through the nasty muck of the ditch with his ear half torn off or that this man spoke so glibly about how much he was worth on the slave market. He couldn’t shake the image of Dom half buried under the burning wreckage, which made his own troubles seem minuscule.
Their oddly benevolent captor identified himself as Omar Khan, a local businessman and a member of the Taliban. He and his men had killed many Americans, he informed Jack with a serene smile, but that was only business—hence his title of businessman. But this was fortunate for Jack, Omar Khan explained. His men were trained fighters, and as such were well acquainted with all manner of field medicine. According to Omar, he himself had sutured on any number of ears.
The Taliban boss was indeed a skilled surgeon. He offered Jack some raw opium to dull the pain. Jack declined and was sweating profusely by the time the suturing was complete. Ysabel assisted, passing scissors and antiseptic pads when Omar asked for them. She said nothing, but watching her in the firelight calmed Jack and gave him something to concentrate on—that and the satellite phone that hung from Omar’s belt. She was making some sort of plan. He could see it in her eyes.
An hour later found Jack’s head wrapped in a large gauze bandage and everyone sitting on cushions in front of a feast of saffron rice, peppers, noodles, and grilled mutton. Omar seemed pious enough but allowed Ysabel to eat with the men as long as she covered her head and did not speak unless he spoke to her. He did make sure she was seated nearest to him—which put her across the corner of the table from Jack. Omar sat between the two of them, barely concealing his lascivious looks.
The surgery had robbed Jack of an appetite, but he ate anyway, not knowing when he might get to eat again. Ysabel and Dovzhenko did the same.
“So,” the Russian said. “Do you have buyers already?”
Omar tore his gaze off Ysabel and dipped a morsel of lamb in yogurt before popping it into his mouth. He nodded thoughtfully, chewing his food before he spoke. “Women are easy to sell. If they look like this one, then it does not even matter much if they are virgins.” He shrugged. “If she were, I would keep her for my own wife, but I can see in her eyes that she is not.” He cocked his head to one side, struck with a sudden thought. “Is she married to you?”
Ysabel looked up at that.
“What if I said yes?” Dovzhenko said.
“What you are thinking is true enough,” Omar said. “It would not matter. In any case, my men are working out a ransom for you as well. Russians are a touchy business, but the American will bring a fine reward.”
Movement at the edge of the concrete patio caught Jack’s eye. A small, gray gerbil, the kind American kids kept as pets, scurried in stops and starts toward the rugs, drawn forward, no doubt, by the smell of rich food. Omar threw the trembling little animal some rice, coaxing it closer. They’d apparently played the game before, and Omar was soon able to scoop the little thing up in his fist.
He nodded to one of his men to add wood to the fire while he caressed the little creature in his palm as the flames grew.
A stricken look crossed Ysabel’s face.
Jack frowned. “You’re not going to throw it in, are you?”
Omar chuckled. “That would be a waste,” he said. “But I am going to make a point.” He held the gerbil up in one hand and with the thumb and forefinger of the other snapped the poor thing’s rear legs like matchsticks.
Jack winced in spite of himself. He’d never been a lover of rats and their kin, but hurting one just to hurt it made him want to shoot this guy in the face.
Instead of throwing the squeaking animal into the flames, Omar pitched it against a rock planter at the edge of the veranda. Light from the fire cast a long shadow off the crippled gerbil as it dragged itself toward the darkness, crying in distress.
The snake appeared as if by magic, slithering out from between the rocks, tongue flicking, crawling slowly but steadily toward the doomed gerbil.
Ysabel gasped.
“You are evil,” she whispered.
Jack had already decided he would not let the man hit her, even if it meant getting shot in the head.
But Omar just gave a dismissive laugh. “A saw-scaled viper,” he said, as if watching a nature documentary. “Very deadly. They happen to love my beautiful gardens. In this country, if you find a cool place with shade, there is a very good chance something deadly has found it first.”
The viper struck quickly, and then settled back to wait for the gerbil to die. Already stressed from the broken bones, it staggered only a little before falling over. The snake approached tentatively, and then began the laborious process of swallowing its meal headfirst.
“I am fully aware that you are all thinking of escape,” Omar said. “But your nearest help is miles away and these snakes are everywhere. You would not even make it to the edge of my gardens. I would hate to lose such a valuable investment to the venom of a viper.”
Ysabel looked at Jack and then tugged at the collar of her dress. Omar’s cruelty with the animal had pushed her into action. She had a plan, all right, and now he knew what it was.
48
Clark’s safe house was on a wooded farm outside Montijo, Portugal, across the Tagus River from Lisbon. He made a call to a friend in the Agency to square the use of the facility, cashing in on a little of the mysterious nature of his reputation. He wasn’t active anymore, not on the books anyway. But it was not at all uncommon for active case officers to use trusted retired case officers as instructors or for certain jobs for which they had a particular acumen. The kind of expertise that might be required at a rural farmhouse had Clark’s name written all over it.
It was not a long drive from Alpalhão by American standards, just over a hundred miles, and they made it in two hours. Chavez was behind the wheel, with Clark riding in the backseat with a sedate da Rocha. Midas and Adara followed. At first blush, it seemed the arms dealer was distraught over the death of Lucile Fournier, but the more he sobbed, the more it became clear that he would miss her skills far more than he would miss any relationship.
Before meeting Ding Chavez, Clark had frequently worked alone—the pointiest bit at the tip of the spear. But no matter how alone he was, there were always people on whom he depended. People he cared for and who cared for him. He would have died a long time ago if not for Sandy—just burned to a charred crinkle and floated away on the wind. He’d never admit it, but Ding was more like a brother than a son-in-law. If anyone had told Clark he’d be content to have his daughter marry a former gangbanger from East L.A., he’d have put a boot in their ass. But this particular former gangbanger spoke multiple languages, held a couple of advanced degrees, and, more important, busted his ass to do the right thing, all day, every day.
In some small way Clark felt sorry for da Rocha. Guys like him didn’t have friends. He had employees, and he had contacts. Lucile Fournier had been neither trusted companion nor comrade-in-arms. She’d been a tool in his hands, a means to an end. This asshole was all about himself—which made the people in his orbit all about themselves. In the end, it made Clark’s job all the easier. People fighting for a cause were more difficult to turn. They had to be broken down, and even then, the most zealous might never break, they just came
to terms. But if a man’s primary goal was money, then money or the idea that they would lose the money they already had would turn them.
Clark let da Rocha stew in his own juices during the drive, asking no questions and ignoring him when he tried to start a conversation. By the time they reached the safe house, the man was ready to vomit information.
Da Rocha’s hands were flex-cuffed in front, one restraint around each wrist. A third restraint connected these two cuffs to a chain that was secured around his waist with a padlock, enabling him to raise food or a cup to his lips if he hunched over. Clark shoved him onto a dusty, overstuffed couch that would be hard to get out of without the full use of his hands, and then pulled a dining room chair up close so they were knee-to-knee.
“I gotta tell you,” Clark said. “I expected your house to be bigger.”
Da Rocha looked up at him, squinting a little, as the room was dim.
“What?”
Clark continued. “I mean, you travel around Europe, wheeling and dealing in illegal weapons, and you’re living in a couple-hundred-thousand-euro villa with a handful of bodyguards who might as well have laid down and died for all the good they did you.”
Clark stopped and gave time for the silence to close in.
At length he said, “I’m just saying I thought a man like you would have a fortress. Dealing with Russian GRU is dangerous business.”
“They were not GRU,” da Rocha scoffed.
“Sure they were,” Clark said. “I could smell it on them.”
“Are . . . Are you . . . CIA?”
“Sadly for you,” Clark said, “I am not. We have the same interests, to be sure, but I’m not bound by Agency rules.”
Da Rocha sniffed, then turned to wipe his nose against his shoulder, like a bird preening its wing. He looked up suddenly. “And what if I tell you everything I know?”
Clark shrugged. “I honestly can’t say what’s going to happen after this.”