Monday, June 3, 2013
Kabul
Severinov spat on the floor in front of Johnson and wiped his mouth. “You will have to stay here for the next couple of weeks at least while I’m doing my negotiating.”
He decided it would be amusing to play with the American’s head by giving a slight hint of what his plans were without revealing his full hand. There was the obvious possibility that Washington wouldn’t play ball and agree to a prisoner exchange for Andrei Fedorov, so he didn’t want to put himself in a position where it might appear his scheme had failed, especially if word of that filtered through to Putin. No, he would keep it to himself for as long as possible.
“If I were you, I’d behave. Both of my friends here”—he indicated with his thumb toward Vasily and his security chief Ivan Lvov, who had also joined them—“have been given full authority to shoot you dead if you try anything that’s going to cause a problem. Do you understand?”
Johnson said nothing, and Severinov walked out of the basement room where he was incarcerated, followed by Vasily and Lvov, who locked the door carefully.
What Severinov really wanted was to give Johnson some of the same treatment he had handed out to Baz in Wazrar prior to his death. The thought of using his truncheon on Johnson’s shins and hands was quite appealing. Stings for the Motherland. But he knew that inflicting that kind of damage on the American could wreck his chances of exchanging him.
Severinov led the way back up the stairs and into a room that had been set up as a rudimentary kitchen. He had taken every precaution to check for surveillance on the journey back to the house from Wazrar and was fairly satisfied that his tactic of bribing his way through every checkpoint by offering as much money as it took had ensured that the Ford Ranger’s details and plate number had gone unrecorded by the Afghan police. But he couldn’t be certain—all it would take for the whole thing to go disastrously wrong would be one officer who decided for the hell of it to insert his details into the system, despite pocketing the cash.
So therefore, the best thing would be to get the rented Ford Ranger back to the rental office as quickly as possible, thus giving him deniability. If it all blew up, he would simply blame Lvov. Severinov needed to get back to Moscow immediately for a Besoi Energy executive committee meeting scheduled for later that day.
The biggest problem was he had made no further headway with his plans to take revenge on Javed. The guy had vanished out in the mountains east of Wazrar, and Lvov had seen no sign of him in Kabul at the address on Street Ten that was listed on his CV. If he didn’t show up there, it wasn’t immediately obvious how Severinov was going to track him down. But he was confident he would find a way; if nothing else, their paths would inevitably cross if they both continued to play a part in the oil and gas investment process. But for the next few days at least, he would have to put Vasily and Lvov in charge of the search.
Severinov had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that there was nothing in the safe house that could be linked to him, including destroying the framed Stalin quote that had been on the wall. Even Vasily and Lvov only had burner phones. He had also told Lvov to leave his passport and other identification documents in an underfloor cavity in the Sherpur apartment, where they were unlikely to be found.
As a safeguard, Severinov instructed Vasily to remain at the Sherpur apartment, where he could act as a backup in case something went wrong at the safe house and could call in periodically to check everything. The two properties were only a twenty-five minute drive apart, and Vasily could use another pickup that was garaged at the apartment.
Severinov returned to another room where he had stored his belongings and threw them into a travel bag, then walked through to the kitchen to speak to Lvov. He instructed him to contact the crew of his Bombardier jet, which was parked at the airport, and tell them to prepare for takeoff within the next hour.
“I’m out of here,” Severinov said to Lvov. “You’ve only got one task here, and that’s to keep Johnson and the Pakistani under close guard and safe. If you can manage that until I close down the operation, there’s a big bonus in it for you.”
He turned to Vasily. “You need to call in at least twice a day and check that things are okay. And in between, you need to keep a close check on the Street Ten address.”
The big Russian nodded.
“I don’t know why you don’t just shoot those two worthless idiots and throw them in the river,” Lvov said, indicating downstairs with his thumb. “What possible use are they to you now?”
Severinov had decided not to confide in either man the details of his prisoner exchange plans for Johnson. The fewer people who knew about his intentions the better.
“Just do as I say,” Severinov said.
“Yes, boss, no problem,” Lvov replied with a sigh.
Severinov picked up the keys of the Ford and beckoned to Vasily. “I’ll drop you back at Sherpur on my way to the airport. Come on.” The two men headed out the door.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Kabul
At just before six o’clock, Javed was ready to head back to the apartment block. He had three RPGs and a tubular steel launcher in a large backpack hidden under a tarp in the back of his Toyota Hilux, while his Browning was stuck in his belt.
Before leaving, he checked that Severinov’s phone was still at his target site. The blue dot on the map was reassuringly stationary.
This time, he chose a longer route that took him in a loop north of the airport through a series of backstreets and rat runs and back down toward the apartment block, thereby approaching it from the north, not the south as he had previously. It was a route guaranteed to avoid security roadblocks.
Forty minutes later he was edging down Tajikan Road, which led into Russia Road. Quite appropriate, Javed thought, as he then turned left a couple of blocks north of the Kabul-Nangarhar highway, did another set of stair-step turns onto the highway, and continued eastward until he reached his destination.
He pulled into the same alley he had used before, across the road from the apartment block, and paused for a few moments. This felt like the old days all over again: him against the Russians. More than twenty-five years since the death of his wife and young daughter, he would finally have his opportunity for revenge.
The street was quiet, but Javed spent a few moments carefully double-checking that nobody was watching him. Then he took the backpack from beneath the tarp and walked the few meters to the staircase that led up the side of the apartment block. He climbed to the roof, which was deserted. The washing that had hung on the line earlier had been removed, and the bicycles had disappeared from beneath the small shelter.
He placed the rucksack up against one of the poles that supported the laundry line and walked to the edge of the roof, from where he had a clear view down into the yard surrounding the house below. This was going to work perfectly.
Javed retreated back beneath the shelter, concealing himself as best he could. He took the launcher, the optical sight, and one of the green missiles with its black warhead from his rucksack and clamped the sight onto the launcher. Then he crouched and, holding the launcher upright, inserted the missile, twisting it counterclockwise until it locked into place.
He shuffled to the edge of the flat roof, took up position, and carefully studied the building below. The best option seemed to be to try to aim at the largest window at the rear of the property, which faced toward him and to which he had a good line of sight. He guessed that the chances of him getting the missile on target and through the window were no more than fifty-fifty, but it gave him a focal point. He lowered himself into a prone position; there was no cover on the flat roof, so he figured that lying down would make him as invisible as possible to anyone glancing up from below.
He moved the safety switch on the trigger housing to off and rested the launcher on his right shoulder, holding the barrel grip with his left hand and steadying himself by planting his elbows on the concrete roof surface.
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Carefully, Javed pressed down with his right thumb on the hammer lever behind the trigger so it was fully cocked, then settled down and applied his right eye to the shield at the back of the telescopic sight, which he lined up on the exact center of the window. From this distance the window almost filled the frame.
Javed moved his right index finger onto the trigger and consciously slowed his breathing in order to keep the weapon as steady as possible. It all took him back to the ’80s, when he had gone through this routine almost daily from the mountainsides and gorges up and down the Khost-Gardez Pass, aiming at Russian armored vehicles and tanks.
Slowly, inexorably, keeping as still as he could, he began to pull his finger back on the trigger.
There was a loud metallic click as the hammer pinged into the firing pin. But instead of the expected whoosh and large puff of smoke as the missile screamed away, nothing happened. The booster didn’t ignite, and the missile remained in the launcher.
“Shit,” Javed said.
He recocked the hammer, eased himself back into his firing position, and took aim again. Gradually his finger pulled the trigger backward. Another loud click as the hammer was released, but again, the same result. It misfired for a second time.
Javed swore again. He raised himself to a seated position and flicked the safety back on, then checked that the round was properly seated in the launcher. It appeared to be, but something had caused the misfires. He slowly removed the round and checked the firing pin. There was a clear mark on it, so the hammer had definitely struck home both times. Perhaps the fault was with the round and he should try another one.
He pulled the rucksack toward him and was about to remove another warhead when from below there came the sound of a diesel engine starting. He looked up to see the gray pickup moving toward the black gates of the compound, which were swinging open.
At that point, Javed stiffened and swore out loud again. Was Severinov in the vehicle or still in the house? He fumbled in his pocket and took out his phone to check the location of the tracker device, almost dropping it in his rush.
As the Ranger accelerated out of the gate and onto the street, the blue dot appeared on the map on his screen. It was moving steadily away from his location. Javed looked skyward and silently cursed long and hard in his native Pashto.
He decided he would just have to sit and wait until Severinov returned and then hit him in the pickup as he came back through the gates.
But Javed watched for the next ten minutes as the blue dot moved along the Kabul-Nangarhar highway, then cut northwest toward the airport. Soon afterward it came to a halt about three and a half kilometers northwest of his current spot—at Kabul International Airport. He sat upright in alarm.
Now what? Is he fleeing? Should I head to the airport?
While he was trying to think through his options, there came the rhythmic clattering of helicopter engines. He had heard them taking off from Camp Phoenix, and now he watched as two choppers approached his location from the west, flying at no more than a couple of hundred feet above the industrial units. As it drew nearer, the engine noise vibrated in his ears.
Initially, Javed thought nothing of the spectacle. They were probably heading to Bagram.
But then the two aircraft slowed and began to hover low at the western side of Severinov’s property.
The large rear door of the first chopper was open, and inside, Javed could clearly see four men, all dressed in combat gear. Three were standing next to the right side of the door, and a fourth, holding a rifle, was on the left. Behind them was a woman.
A few seconds later, the first helicopter, which Javed could now see was a Black Hawk with US Army markings, began to descend slowly and precisely and, to his astonishment, landed gently right in the center of the walled site, its nose pointing toward the house.
Through the large cloud of dust that was being thrown up by the downdraft from the first chopper’s rotor blades, Javed saw the three men on the right side jump out and run swiftly toward the house. One man was carrying a sledgehammer and what looked like a circular box; the other two had rifles. The man in the door of the chopper was covering them with his rifle while the woman watched.
The second chopper landed in the road to the left of Severinov’s property, and eight men jumped out, all carrying rifles. They spread out, four in each direction, around the perimeter of the site.
Javed’s first instinct had been to remain still where he was. But now he grabbed the RPG launcher and his rucksack and ran underneath the only cover available, the small bicycle shelter on the far side of the roof, where he flattened himself to the ground. He hoped he hadn’t been seen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday, June 3, 2013
Kabul
Storey jumped to the ground from the Black Hawk and, screwing up his eyes to avoid the dust cloud billowing up from the chopper’s downdraft, set off toward the house in the corner of the compound, with Thollen and Randall close behind.
He had carried out this kind of operation countless times in training, both in the US and in Afghanistan, and the skills and movements required now came as easily as dribbling a basketball, which until a few years ago had been his main sporting preoccupation back home in Charleston, South Carolina.
Once the green light for the mission had come back from the US general’s office in Kabul as well as Afghan army headquarters, Storey, Thollen, and Randall had quickly devised a plan based on the ground shots and aerial photographs of the target site received from Bagram. Now they needed to put it into practice.
The three men ran up to the dark wooden door facing out into the yard. While Storey, holding his M4 assault rifle and with an M9 pistol at his hip, stood to one side and directed operations, Randall placed a reel of detonator cord on the floor and positioned himself to swing at the door with the sledgehammer. Thollen covered the other two men with his rifle.
After four blows, the door, which looked rock solid, showed no sign of giving way.
“Blast it open,” Storey shouted.
Randall unclipped a Ulisliding knot cord detonator from his belt and hooked it over the doorknob. Then he slid the two knots, to which were taped a two-inch-square piece of C4 explosive, upward so the charge was snugly tight around the underside of the knob.
This was Storey’s preferred method of breaking through a firmly locked door on a target building. An explosive charge had the advantage of stunning whoever was in the room behind, giving him immediate control. There was a slight risk that Johnson might be in that room, but long experience told Storey that was highly unlikely—captives were almost invariably kept under lock and key in some other remote room, not near the main exit.
Randall picked up the reel of detonating cord, connected it, and ran it around the side of the building, where he attached a small shock tube initiator. The three men moved around the corner so they were all out of line of the planned explosion, and Randall pressed the button.
Instantaneously, despite the raucous thudding of the Black Hawk’s engines behind him, they heard a loud blast. Storey indicated to Thollen to go first. The staff sergeant, holding his rifle ready, led the way around to the door, closely followed by the others.
The solid wooden door was now lying flat on the floor, the frame splintered and broken where the door had been blown inward.
There on the floor, down a hallway fifteen feet from the entrance, was a blond-haired man who was unsteadily hauling himself to his feet. He was holding a pistol in his right hand, a cell phone in his left.
“Drop it! Drop the weapon! Place your hands above your head!” Thollen screamed, pointing his M4 straight at the man.
But the man either didn’t hear or understand, or he had been disoriented by the blast, or maybe he even decided to take a chance. Either way, he turned as he rose, pistol still in hand.
Thollen pulled the trigger, hitting the man in the chest and sending him flying back to the floor. His pistol fell from his hand and skittered ac
ross the tiled floor, and his head crunched hard on the tiles. Then he lay motionless.
“Let’s check this way first,” Storey shouted. He ran down the corridor to the first door.
“Joe, you in there?” Storey yelled. There was no response so he gestured to Randall, who kicked it open. The room behind was empty, as were the other two rooms leading off the corridor.
“Downstairs next,” Storey said. “Go slowly and bring your sledgehammer, Sergeant.”
After stepping outside to pick up his sledgehammer, Randall followed Thollen down the stairs into a basement corridor, Storey close behind.
“Joe, you there?” Thollen shouted. This time there was a muffled but audible shout back from behind one of the doors. “In here. I’m in here.”
Randall moved forward and tried the door handle, but it was locked. He raised the sledgehammer to waist high and swung it hard at the lock. After two blows, the door smashed open, thudding back against the wall behind it, and there, standing at the far end of the room, was Joe Johnson.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Kabul
“The bird has flown, buddy,” Storey said. “The only guy in the building is the stiff down the corridor. Ivan Lvov is his name, according to the name engraved on the back of his watch. Obviously Russian.” He indicated toward Lvov’s body, which was lying faceup.
Johnson didn’t bother asking who had shot Lvov. But thankful as he and Haroon were to be released, it was a blow that their rescuers had not managed to find and detain Severinov.
“I do, however, have your chick Jayne on the chopper,” Storey said, with half a grin. “She’s been worried about you.”
“Thanks, but she’s not my ‘chick,’” Johnson said.
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