Kate Donovan and Tessa Harris chatted as they finished going through the documents relating to the donation. The lawyer clipped them together, gave a set to Tessa for her lawyer to peruse, and filed the office copies away. They’d been alone for the past thirty minutes. The staff had gone, but she’d waited for the wealthy widow to arrive. Two hundred thousand dollar donations didn’t turn up every day of the week, but Mrs. Harris eventually arrived, and they ran through the formalities. Kate had arranged it so the donor would benefit substantially from tax advantages. It was the least she could do. The woman’s lawyer would have insisted on it, anyway. When Tessa Harris arrived, she’d been talking to Quint about his case, and she introduced them.
“This is Quint. He’s a, well, a friend of Jack Taylor, and a client, of course.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am,” Quint smiled at her. Kate noticed he could be quite charming and pleasant for a brutal, inner city drug dealer.
They shook hands, but Kate could see the huge, black drug dealer intimidated her. Quint mumbled a few polite words and left, so they were able to get down to work. A half hour later, they were almost done.
“I think that ties it up. Do you have any questions for me?”
Tessa smiled. “No, I’m fine. Give me two or three days. I’ll have my own lawyer go through it, and then it’s just a matter of signing and the bank making the transfer.”
“You must know how much we appreciate all this. It’s a lifesaver. Without it, the Center would have to close.”
“It’s not a problem. I only hope it can help you to protect people from animals like Babayev. I’ve been so frightened since it all happened. I’ve even taken to carrying a gun.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The woman nodded nervously. “Yes, I hope so too. But if it comes to it, I know I’ll be able pull the trigger.”
Kate got up. “Let me show you out. I’ll need a few minutes more to lock up.”
Tessa Harris walked out into the street and immediately regretted it. The rain had started again and was beating down in torrents. The gutters were like small rivers, with streams of water running past. The wind was blowing hard, so she decided against the umbrella. It wouldn't have lasted more than a few seconds in the gusts. She wouldn’t have noticed Alvin, the ugly kid, huddled in a doorway out of the weather. All she saw was a heap of old plastic sheets and sodden cardboard. Neither did she see him staring at her as she walked away. She began looking for a cab, but there was nothing. She almost reached the end of the street, and still there was nothing in sight. She could feel the cold rain seeping under her clothes and knew she’d be soaked through when she got home. A Mercedes pulled in next to her, and the window lowered. The man in the passenger seat looked out.
"You look like you could do with a ride, Ma’am. Climb in. I'm going your way."
She felt relief.
It must be someone I know, but how could that be? I know no one in this area.
She leaned down to identify the driver, a big man, middle-aged, somewhere in his fifties. Foreign looking. Not a man she recognized at first, but it could only be one man. Alarm bells rang in her head.
"I'm okay, thank you. I don't need a ride."
She started to walk away and broke into a jog, but the Mercedes had started moving and was keeping pace with her. It accelerated slightly and stopped a few yards ahead. The man in the passenger seat climbed out and stood facing her, the rain beating down on his well-cut but old-fashioned suit. She went to move around him, but he blocked her.
"Mrs. Harris, get in the car. I just want to talk to for a few moments, and then we'll take you home."
"What do you want?"
She looked around wildly, but there was no one she could appeal to for help.
"There is no need to fear me. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd be under the wheels of my car, not sitting inside and enjoying a safe and comfortable ride home. Get in. It’s very wet out here. You will be quite safe."
He opened the rear door and she climbed in. He closed the door behind her, went around the other side, and sat next to her. He gave her address to the driver, a young, hugely muscled man with tattoos displayed prominently on his neck, and the car pulled away.
Babayev turned to look at her. "Mrs. Harris, you know I run a small restaurant. Here in Boston. For some inexplicable reason, you and others think I'm involved with the death of your husband, Walt. It's all nonsense, of course, but I would still like to agree an offer with you.”
She stared at him. “After you killed my husband? Are you crazy?”
He shook his head in mock sadness. “A misunderstanding. One of my employees is dead, murdered. Do I go looking for vengeance? I do not. Believe me, I don't want any misunderstandings between us. Please, give me a number, and we can put all this behind us."
She worked hard to calm her racing thoughts. "Not in a million years, and I’m sorry one of your people is dead. Unless he’s the man who killed Walt, in which case, I’m very glad, believe me.”
His eyes narrowed. "You say you’re glad, and yet my man is dead."
"That's too bad, but it has nothing to do with me."
He was quiet for a few moments, but then he continued, his voice low and menacing. "I want to make it clear, so there's no misunderstanding. You seem to be cozy with that place back there. You think they can help you? You may as well forget about them. I promise you they’re finished. They’re about to go bust.”
His voice had risen and she could smell the booze on his breath.
Probably vodka, she thought to herself. Don’t they all drink it, people from those former Soviet countries?
She thought it best not to mention her donation, so she turned away and looked out the window, but he roughly jerked her around to face him.
“You find this boring, Mrs. Harris? I assure you it isn’t. Before long, that place which gives advice to the losers and dropouts who infest this neighborhood will be no more. It'll be a heap of rubble, and that rubble will be the last resting place of anyone unfortunate enough to be inside at the time. Do I make myself clear?"
He was almost screaming now, his big body looming over her, bullying, threatening. She managed to meet his intense gaze.
"You're talking to the wrong person, Mr. Babayev, but you’re making threats which could form the basis of a lawsuit. I feel it may be in my best interest to seek a restraining order against you."
He laughed then, a chuckle that was like faulty bearings grating against sand.
"Lady, you can seek anything you like, but it won't make any difference. I've given you a fair warning. What do I have to do to convince you to see sense?"
She was about to reply when the there was a shocking, grinding crash as another vehicle smashed into the side of them. It lurched off course and up on the sidewalk, where it slid along a bare concrete wall for a few yards and then came to a stop. The sudden halt threw them all forward, and she felt the impact of the seatbelt bruise her ribs and force the air from her lungs. She worked hard to control the panic and sucked in air. After a few seconds, she calmed a little, looked around and realized she was still alive, still functioning, and with nothing broken. Babayev was shouting to his driver in a foreign language. Then the door next to her opened and a voice said, "Mrs. Harris, get out now, hurry."
She didn't move first. The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it. She looked up, recognizing the huge man looming over her. Quint, the man she’d been introduced to at the Law Center. The man was a friend of Jack Taylor.
Can I trust him? Can I trust anyone? What the hell should I do?
Her panic surged, and yet there was something in Quint’s voice. A quality, a humanity maybe telling her this man really was offering to help. She calmed down.
After all, Kate Donovan introduced us, so he isn’t a complete stranger.
He had his hand held out to help her out of the car. She took it and allowed herself to be pulled out onto the sidewalk. Three more men were waiting, all black, all big, and only marginally less threatening than Quint. He handed her over to two of them, then went around the car with the fourth man and opened the door. She heard his voice, loud and angry.
"Motherfucker, you touch her again, you go near her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever do in this life."
She could hear Babayev's angry voice snarling a reply, but Quinn cut him off.
"Don't mess with me, white boy. I got people all over this town. You make a move, and I'll know about it before you do. You want to live, stay away. That's a friendly warning. You won't get another one."
Quint swung around, and they walked to his vehicle, a custom Hummer, decked out with enough chrome plate to customize a month's output of the Ford factory. The truck that rammed Babayev’s car was abandoned on the street, the front fender still enmeshed in the bodywork of the Mercedes. They helped her step up into the back seat, and she sat in the comfortable and luxurious leather-smelling upholstery. The rest of the men climbed in, and they drove away.
"We'll go pick up Miss Donovan and then take you home. Is that okay?"
She nodded, too shocked to answer.
"He didn't hurt you, that bastard?"
She shook her head and finally managed to speak.
"How did you know?"
He grinned. "One of my people saw it happen. He’d seen you come out of the Center, so he told Kate Donovan, and she called me. Then I fixed up that little surprise."
She nodded. "I don’t know how to thank you. She’s representing you in court?”
He nodded.
“If you need any help with your legal costs, Mr., er, Quint, I’d be more than pleased to help out.”
He laughed. "That’s a kind offer, but no, I’m fixed. It’s just little disagreement between the Boston cops and me. I gather your husband was in the Navy?”
“Yes, he was a Seal.”
“Right. One of my relations signed up for that action man crap, so if I can do anything to help, it’s no problem.”
She nodded uncertainly as the car stopped, and Kate joined them in the back.
“Are you okay, Tessa?”
She nodded. “Thanks to this man, yes, I am.”
The lawyer smiled at Quint. “You’ll be volunteering to help out at the Center next, Quint.”
He grimaced. “People like you and that poor guy Hermann who made Taylor’s legs, you never know when you may need them, or when my fool of a younger brother may need them. Right now, that doctor’s been snatched, and your boyfriend has to do this thing he's doing to help get him back. I guess you knew that anyway. You know I'm not doing this just so you’ll work on my case?”
“I know.”
“Yeah, well, that’s right. I’m not. That guy of yours, Taylor, you must be mighty proud of him. He’s a good customer, too, one of the best. Always pays, never any trouble. You should take care of him when he gets back.”
She was almost as stunned as when the truck had hit the Mercedes. Drug dealers were not known for acts of philanthropy, not the last time she checked.
"I will, Quint.”
"Yeah, well, don't you ladies worry none about Babayev. I'll do what I can until that guy of yours gets back.”
They stopped outside Tessa’s house. Kate went in with her. She was still shaking with fear.
“Thank you for everything. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get on home now. Will you be okay?”
“I’m fine. That Quint, what does he do? He said something about Taylor was a customer.”
She hesitated. “He’s a kind of merchant. Buys and sells. Call me when you have those documents ready, and we can finalize the arrangements. And thanks for helping to save us.”
“I’m not sure who’s saving who, but you’re welcome.”
She left Tessa Harris. Quint took her home, and she went inside. Her mind was starting to function again, and she found it difficult to comprehend.
What the hell have I got myself into? It’s hard to believe! Somehow, a drug dealer is acting as a kind of bodyguard. What on earth will my parents have to say? And what about Taylor?
She felt the tears begin to flow, as she thought of the man she loved, so far away, and so unlikely to ever return. She fixed herself a strong drink and curled into a ball on the couch. She tried to think, about Jack, Quint, Tessa Harris and that poor Walt Harris, who lost his life to that Uzbek thug. For hour after hour, she let her mind wander, and no matter how hard she tried, she could see no happy ending. As darkness fell, she went to pull the drapes. The rain was still beating down on the sidewalk, and across the street she could see several parked cars. She wondered if one of them contained Quint's watcher, or maybe Babayev's? She knew there was a lot of unfinished business there. She sighed and refilled her glass, gulped it down, and refilled it again. Finally, the alcohol did its work, and she felt tired enough to go to bed, but as she was trying to fall asleep, her last thoughts were of Jack Taylor. She desperately wanted him to come home to her. She knew it wasn't going to happen.
Is he already dead? I have to face the possibility.
* * *
Taylor stared at Ollie for long moments. "You're sure, there's no other way?"
"I'm certain. We'll have to go back."
He grimaced.
This guy doesn't know me, and he doesn't know Wes. I don't recall a time when a few sentries stopped us going anywhere.
He crawled across to his partner. "Switch off the engine. We'll get out and go on foot."
They dropped to the muddy ground and crawled forward. It seemed impossible that whoever was on the island hadn't heard the engine of the Toyota, until he realized the roaring of the river was enough to blanket the sound. As they drew nearer, the men they shared the island with came into view. He relaxed slightly. They weren't wearing uniform. It meant they didn't risk involving the authorities if they tangled with them. They came nearer, four men, heavily armed, leading a couple of donkeys loaded with heavy packs and wooden crates. Taylor ran through all of the options. If they'd been heading north, it could easily have been a consignment of opium, but they were heading south into Afghanistan. The packs could only contain supplies for the various insurgent groups who fought the NATO forces, probably ammunition and spare parts for the assault rifles, as well as explosives in the wooden crates, with which they would manufacture IEDs.
"They're moving away from where we left the Toyota," Ollie murmured. "Maybe we should just let them go. I doubt they'll see us."
"So we give them a free pass to go ahead and kill some of our people? I don't think so. We'll take them, but knives only. Don't shoot unless it's absolutely necessary.” He stared at the academic. “You okay with that, Professor?”
He shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He took a couple of practice swings with the pry bar. He looked like a golfer teeing up for a long shot across the fairway, except he'd never seen a golfer use a steel driver to such deadly effect. Right then, the moonlight shone down for a few seconds through a break in the clouds, and he saw the shine in Ollie’s eyes.
It's not fear. The man is actually looking forward to it. Jesus Christ, is he a psycho, or a good old-fashioned adventurer? The third option is he’s both trained and experienced in this kind of work.
Taylor would like to have known more about Ollie James, but it wasn’t the time to go asking. One of the shadowy figures suddenly shouted in alarm, and they veered toward them. They’d spotted the reflection of the Toyota in the moonlight.
“Keep down in the mud,” he breathed. “We’ll take them when they’re on top of us.”
The insurgents came nearer. At one point it seemed as if they'd veer away, but a stream cut across the island blocking their path, and they headed back toward the men who waited for them. It was impossible to hear them coming above the loud noise of the torrent of water that surged past both sides of the island, but Taylor was able to peer through a clump of river grass to watch their progress. He fixed his sights on the man he considered the most dangerous. He seemed to be leading the others, and in his hand he held a pistol, which he pointed every time he thought he heard something. They were obviously concerned about running into a border patrol, and equally ready to shoot them down like dogs. Nearer and nearer, three meters away, two meters, and then the man with the pistol almost stepped on him. He catapulted to his feet and saw the look of shock and fear on his opponent's face. But the man recovered quickly, and forgetting his weapon, he swung a clenched fist that whistled past Taylor's chin as he swerved to one side. He stepped forward and smacked a foot into the man's groin, hearing the breath whistle past his teeth as he felt the agony of the blow. Then he remembered his gun, and his hand swung up. Even with the noise of the river, he couldn't be sure the shots would go unnoticed. He reached for the man's gun hand, held it tight, ignoring the blows from his fist that were pounding on his head. He brought the knife across the guy's wrist in a deep, slashing cut that sliced through his veins and tendons. The man screamed as he lost all feeling in his hand. The fingers opened, and his pistol dropped to the ground, but the insurgent was far from beaten. He was still pounding on Taylor's head with his fist. He managed to regain his balance and position himself for a perfect left uppercut that would have almost taken his unknown enemy's head off. For the second time, he managed to swerve away from the blow, and it only grazed past his head. Taylor hit out again, aiming a strike at the man's heart that would have ended the fight, but the man was no rookie. He deflected the blow with his good arm. It almost came off. At the same time, he swiveled on the balls off his feet and went to aim a hard blow with his other arm. He'd forgotten it was badly injured, and all he managed to do was open up the wound even more as his bloody hand collided with Taylor's shoulder. It was too good an opportunity to miss, ignoring the man's attempt to strike again with his good hand; he saw the opening and aimed the combat knife in another hard strike at the guy's heart. He was still off balance, but incredibly he managed to overcome the pain and move his good arm to block the blade. This time, it was a feint. Taylor switched direction at the last moment, plunging the razor sharp point up into the man's throat. The seven-inch blade went into the soft tissue under the chin and all the way up into his head. He started to fall, and Taylor put a boot on his chest to push him away and drag the knife out of the dying man’s neck. He'd done enough and turned away in time to see Ollie James attacking his opponent with the iron pry bar. Once again, it was as if the college professor had been overcome by some atavistic instinct that completely took over thousands of years of civilization and human development. He became an animal, a savage. His lips were drawn back over his teeth in a vicious snarl, and he was keening an eerie, shrieking noise like a nightmare banshee resurrected from the dead. The man he was fighting was on the ground, and clearly the iron bar had already rendered him ‘hors de combat,' but the enraged academic wasn't done. The bloody metal smashed down, again and again, until Taylor had to drag him off.
"That's okay, Professor. He's just as dead as that guy you killed back at Kabul."
Once again, he saw the eerie phenomenon of Ollie returning to his normal human state from the enraged, snarling animal he'd become.
He grinned. "Sorry, I get carried away. What about the others?"
Taylor had already glanced at the other two men. Wes had demolished his opponent by literally battering him into the mud with the stock of his M-16. Levi didn't have the same strength, but he'd achieved the same object with a combat knife similar to Taylor's.
"They're good, Ollie. Take it easy."
Taylor rummaged through the packs strapped to the donkeys standing patiently waiting nearby. As they'd thought, there were supplies of ammunition, stripped down assault rifles, and spare parts, none of which was of any use to them. They'd taken what they needed from the warehouse at Kunduz. Of more interest were the contents of the wooden crates, explosive C3 plastique, together with a good supply of detonators. Enough to make a dozen or more IEDs to be put to use killing NATO troops, but he had other ideas.
"Wes, how are you on demolitions? This stuff could give us what we need to knock off Masood and get out alive."
His friend examined the contents of the packs. "Yeah, these timers should do the trick. All we need now is to find his place, get in, rig the charges, and get out again."
Taylor smiled.
That’s the trick, getting in is one thing. It’s the getting out that’s always the problem.
"We've wasted enough time here. We need to hide the bodies, scatter the donkeys, and press on to Termez while we still have some hours of darkness."
"We could launch them in the river," Ollie suggested. "The torrent is running so fast, they'll be miles downriver before dawn, and no-one will connect them with this place."
He smiled. Once again the professor was showing his teeth. They'd just killed four men in a vicious and bloody hand-to-hand fight, and yet he didn't seem unduly concerned.
Where did you train? Not Navy Seals, we don't fight that way, or Delta Force, for the same reason. My best guess would be Ranger Recon. They can be a psychotic bunch when the chips are down. One day I'll find out.
They tossed the bodies into the fast flowing torrent and pointed the donkeys in the direction of Afghanistan. They crossed the river without apparent difficulty, despite the vicious swirl of water. The animals plodded forward, surefooted, until they reached the other side and ambled away.
Someone will think it's Christmas when they come across them, or maybe not, not Christmas, not here.
The season of goodwill had yet to arrive in the brutal wastes of Afghanistan. Once again, Wes set the vehicle to crawl across the second part of the river. He had the hang of it this time, managing to avoid any heart stopping lurches with unexpected crosscurrents. Only ten minutes after they'd left the island, their front wheels rolled up onto dry land. They had arrived in Uzbekistan.
"There's a track up ahead. You follow it, and it'll take us straight into Termez, exactly where is the target located."
The target. Military terminology.
"It's a street named Maghaki-Attari, and according to our intel, it's fairly obvious. The house is the biggest one in the neighborhood, surrounded by a high wall topped by razor wire. There'll be guards patrolling inside and outside, and there's a kind of turret with a tower built at the side of the house, which we can assume they'll use as a high point to scan the area."
He looked up at the sky, and already the darkness was beginning to give way to the coming day. "It'll have to be a night assault, so we'll need somewhere to lay up through the day. Any ideas, Professor?"
Ollie sighed. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that. I don't have a clue. Why don't we just check into a hotel?"
"We've just entered the country illegally, and we're not carrying passports. There's no way they'd allow us to register."
"Not really, you're right. But in this neck of the woods, they use a passport called a dollar bill. I reckon a hundred dollars would about do it. It would be enough to get them to look the other way."
Taylor looked at Wes. "What do you think?"
"I think I could do with a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. We' need to clean up and change our clothes as well."
He looked down at his clothes. They were spattered with patches of blood, the same as the rest of them.
"I reckon a hotel it is. I take it you have a suggestion?"
Ollie nodded. "As it happens, I do know of a fleapit hotel. It's not on the tourist trail, but the beds are soft, the shower is hot, and the front desk is mighty accommodating. They'll even get you a whore if you feel the need."
"Just the shower, the bed, and a change of clothes, that'll be enough. Do they happen to have a parking barrage? It'd be good to get the Land Cruiser off the street."
"Not a garage, but the parking spaces are out back, so the SUV will be out of sight."
"Good enough, let's go."
He was beginning to have mixed feelings about Professor Ollie James. It was almost a racing certainty he'd been assigned to them by CIA, and almost certainly by Ryan. The way Ned had mentioned Levi so casually, opening the door to the anthropologist who he knew would have been available, was much too much of a coincidence.
But what does it matter? I’m on the mission for one reason, and one reason only. I needed to tap into the resources of the CIA in order to locate Hermann van Rhoos. If it weren't for that single factor, he wouldn't be here. As he is here, Ollie’s proving to be something of an asset. Without a doubt, if we didn't have him along, everything would be that much more difficult.
Wes drove ahead into the town, which proved to be a surprising make of old and modern, with plenty of low-rise development in the middle of ancient stone buildings. They drove past a commercial area, and Ollie directed Wes to turn into a wide street. Two hundred meters along, they turned into the entrance to the hotel. The name emblazoned on the front was Hotel Termez Intercontinental. Ollie's description was far more accurate. It was a fleapit. But Wes drove around back to the parking area, and they all breathed a sigh of relief now they were out of sight of the road.
"You guys wait here. I'll go get us a couple of rooms."
"I'll come with you," Taylor offered. "Won't you need a hundred dollars to bribe the clerk?"
Ollie smiled. "Sure, why not?"
They walked back around to the front. "You don't trust me, do you?"
He returned the academic's smile. "Is there any reason I should trust you, Ollie? Tell me, who do you really work for?"
The man didn’t reply at first. He stopped walking, and Taylor waited.
“I guess you have an idea.”
“Sure, you have to be working for CIA, or one of its affiliates. Your boss has to be Ned Ryan. He was too slick when he pushed me toward using you. Where did you come from, Ranger Recon?”
The 75th Ranger Regiment's Regimental Reconnaissance Company was the newest operational member of the Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC. Like the Navy Seals and Delta Force, they were an elite unit within the US Military.
“You know I can’t confirm anything, Taylor. You were a Seal, so you know what SOP is for people like us. All I can say is your guess is not a million miles shy of the truth, and I’m on your side. I know what’s at stake here. I really do. You’ve been suckered into this because of your friend, Dr. van Rhoos. You need Ryan to locate him for you, and Ryan needs you to take out Masood. I’m just here to help, nothing more. Believe me, I want nothing more than to see this lead to a successful conclusion, and that means Masood dead and your friend brought home.”
“I have a couple of questions, Doc, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
He nodded. “Hit me, if I can give you the answers, I will.”
“First, did Ryan take Hermann, to persuade me to do this?”
He grinned. “I wish I knew.” He thought for a few moments. “Ned’s capable of it, that’s for sure, but my best guess is no, he didn’t do it that way. From the things I’ve heard, the military guys had already moved on him.”
“That’s fair enough. Second question. Why us? Ryan gave me the bullshit about an unlikely civilian team to come in here and take him out, but I’m not buying it. What’s the real story?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I guess you have a right to know; Ryan’s in deep shit with his bosses. He did the planning for the first attempt on Masood a while back. It was a total screw up.” Taylor didn’t interrupt by telling him it wasn’t the first attempt or the first screw up. “Masood’s people saw them coming. They were a platoon of Deltas out of Fort Bragg. Poor bastards, his plan involved an assault on his base in a village just outside Kunduz. They walked into an ambush, wiped out half the team, and the rest of them barely made it back. They made it pretty damn clear to him, if there were any more fuck ups, he'd be lucky to have a job as a filing clerk in the basement archives. So he had this brilliant idea,” Ollie pulled a wry smile. “Send in a team of civilians who didn’t look like they could fight their way out of a paper bag, but they’d still have the military skills necessary to pull it off. And if it all went wrong, there'd be no military casualties. He's a total ass, but to give him his due, so far it's worked."
"So far."
They reached the hotel reception and sure enough, the production of a one hundred dollar bill proved to be a more than adequate substitute for passports. The clerk gave them adjoining rooms on the top floor.
"I'm sorry, Sirs. The elevator is out of order, and the bellhop called in sick this morning, so you'll have to carry your own luggage."
Taylor smiled. It was consistent with the crappy infrastructure they'd encountered so far. Outdated and unreliable Soviet era aircraft, wrecked cellphone towers, and just about every other aspect of modern technology were in ruins.
The only things that work around here are the weapons. They make sure they keep them well maintained. Always.
It only took ten minutes to transfer their gear from the Toyota to their rooms, and before they grabbed a shower and some rest, they spent some time cleaning and checking everything out. Ollie helped him. They were in a shared room, and the academic had no problem field stripping, cleaning, and reassembling an M-16 and an AK-47. When they were done, he cleaned up in the shower, pulled on clean pants and a T-shirt, and threw himself on the bed. His first thought was for the pain. He had the Oxy from Troy’s warehouse, and he was able to squander a half-dozen tablets to allow him some rest. Then he remembered Kate. He pulled out his cellphone, switched on, and checked the screen. To his astonishment, there was a strong signal. As he recalled, Boston was eight and a half hours behind Afghanistan and Uzbekistan. Local time right now was 0900, which meant it was a half after midnight back home. He pressed the speed dial and waited. It seemed to take forever with clicks and buzzes, as the call was rooted through God knows where. Finally, it rang.
"Kate Donovan."
Her voice sounded strange, not as confident and businesslike as normal.
"It's me."
A pause. "Where are you?"
"Termez, Uzbekistan."
He heard a sharp intake of breath from her. "Is everything okay?"
"It's going real well." He spent a few minutes reassuring her it couldn't be better, and he expected to be home a lot quicker than he'd anticipated. He didn't bother explaining they'd only completed the journey to the target. She didn't need to know the next stage would determine not only whether they'd be home soon, or whether they'd be home at all. "You sound different, worried."
"No, no, it's all…" Her voice was shaky, and it tailed off. "That's not true. I am worried, Jack."
She explained about Babayev, and how Quint had saved Tessa.
"Jesus! Does Quint think he'll try again?"
"He's got someone looking out for both of us, so we’ll be okay."
There was another strained silence, and he felt compelled to try and repair some of the damage he'd done to their relationship.
"Kate, I'm sorry. I've been a total ass. I know you deserve a lot better than me, but if there's any chance of getting things back to normal when I get back, I'd like to take it."
"I'd like that. I know it's not been easy for you."
He felt a flare of anger. He despised anyone feeling sympathy for him, but he swallowed it. It was a warm sentiment from a girl he knew loved him a great deal.
"I reckon I've made it just as hard for you. Listen, Kate, if I get back, I'm gonna stop being such a hardass. We'll locate Hermann and bring him back, and I'll…"
"If?"
"I'm sorry, what you mean, if?"
"You said 'if' you get back."
He forced a relaxed tone into his voice. "Slip of the tongue. I guess it's something from the old days in the military. I meant when I get back."
"Don't fucking lie to me!" He was taken aback by her surge of anger, somehow it sounded harsh coming across the phone line where he couldn't instinctively reach out and take her in his arms. "You said if, and you meant if," she continued. "It's a tough one, Jack, isn't it?"
He didn't answer at first, but he'd made a bad start to patching things up.
"Okay, yeah. It's a tough one, but that's nothing new, and I always get home."
"Make sure you do."
"I will, and about that business with Babayev. You're certain Quint is looking after you all?"
"I am. He moved pretty fast when that gangster got Tessa in his car."
"That's good. I'll sort out Babayev when I get back."
"I wish you didn't have to."
"Yeah, and I wish people like Babayev didn't walk the streets of Boston, but as long as they do, and as long as they’re a threat to the people I love, they have to be dealt with."
"Is that who I am? One of the people you love?"
He cursed himself for making it sound so impersonal. This girl was something special, and she deserved a whole lot more from him. "I'll always look after you, Kate. I love you."
This time there was a long pause on the line. "Just be safe, Jack. Come home to me."
Before he could reply, he heard the beep of an incoming call.
"It won't be long. I'll see you soon."
He ended the conversation and answered the new caller.
"Taylor."
"This is Ned. I've been trying to call you, but you had your cell switched off."
He didn't bother to explain about the destroyed tower at Kunduz.
"What do you want, Ryan?"
"Hey, I just called to see how it's going."
"Why don't you speak to your man Ollie? He's here in the room with me now."
"My man? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't fuck with me, Ryan. We both know exactly what I'm talking about. Before we go any further, have you located Hermann yet?"
"No, you don't get anything until you deliver. What about Masood?"
He decided it would be a waste of time to press him further.
"His place is near where we're staying. We'll check it out later, and if we can see a way in, we'll make our move tonight. But you have to understand if it's not possible, we may have to abandon. We've had a few near misses getting this far, and we haven't even made the assault."
"Hear me, Taylor. Pulling out is not an option. You have to take that guy out."
"Or what? If we fail does that mean you miss your next promotion?"
A pause. "It's not that at all," he replied irritably. "Masood has been a thorn in the side of our people for too long and caused too many casualties. As long as he lives, it'll be almost impossible for us to contemplate pulling our forces back from Afghanistan. You have to kill him!"
At least the bastard isn't dressing it up in Agency bullshit, like 'terminate with extreme prejudice', or,' remove from the equation'.
"That's another thing. If the guy doesn't put up a fight, there's no way I'm going in to assassinate him. That's not the way I operate, Ryan. You should remember that from your time with me in the Seals."
He heard a sigh in exasperation. "You just reach him. If you're too yellow to pull the trigger, I'll get Ollie to do it. Put him on."
He handed over the cell. "It's His Master’s Voice. I guess you'd better talk to him."
Ollie grimaced and picked it up. Taylor heard him talking to Ryan and giving him the word he wanted to hear. Yes. Then he ended the call. He took his cell back, set the alarm on his wristwatch for four hours time, and threw himself on the bed.
"I'm gonna grab some sleep. If I was you, I’d do the same."
"Don't you want to hear what the man said?"
"No, I don't."
The other two men joined them in their room at 1330. They had plenty of daylight left, and Taylor told them they'd use it reconnoitering the target. He didn't need to ask if they'd cleaned and checked the weapons in preparation for the assault planned for that night. Wes was in the room with Levi, and he would have almost done it in his sleep. They carried the assault rifles, spare ammunition, and explosives down to the Land Cruiser and hid them in the trunk. They all carried personal weapons. Taylor strapped on his harness underneath his coat. He felt more comfortable with the reassuring weight of the Colt automatic against his chest, together with a couple of spare clips in his pockets. Wes started the engine, and they drove out of the hotel into the teeming daytime traffic of the city. It was an astonishing mixture of old and new. Everything from peasant carts pulled by horses and donkeys, to shining new Porsches, displaying the newfound wealth of the local Mafiya-run criminal gangs. In between, there was every manner of transport, rusting Soviet era cars, German VWs and Mercedes, and even several American cars, Chevrolets, Chryslers, and Dodges. The commercial traffic was no less diverse, a mix of horse and cart and modern semi-trailers, competing for space with battered trucks and dented delivery vans. The people to were an eclectic mix of Western clothes and more colorful and exotic local costume, together with the ever-present headscarves and burqas that marked the Muslim women. It was a sober reminder that Uzbekistan was one of the 'Stans', a Muslim country, although so far they had escaped the worst of the Islamic crazies who had poisoned so many other Asian nations. They drove through the streets, and Ollie directed Wes to Masood's base. It was an eerie reminder of the photos they'd seen of Osama bin Laden's compound in Pakistan; a main house with several outbuildings in a spacious yard, surrounded by a high stonewall topped with razor wire. Armed men patrolled the streets nearby, making no effort to hide the weapons they carried on their shoulders, AKMs, the modern variant of the venerable Kalashnikov AK-47. Despite their inferior accuracy to Western assault rifles, they were rugged, reliable, and lethal in the right hands, capable of firing repeated bursts of 7.62mm bullets until they ran out of ammunition. Or the owner was dead. There was no doubt the interior of the compound would be similarly well guarded. It occurred to Taylor that the most effective way to assault the compound would be the way it was done for bin Laden, a night assault with quiet helicopters by an elite force, such as the Navy Seals; except Ismail Masood was as cunning as a barrel of monkeys. The last time the military had tried something similar, they'd taken heavy casualties for no result. The gates were massive, built of thick, heavy hardwood reinforced with thick iron strips. They drove past twice and didn't see them open. Two meters to the side of the main gates was a single gate for personnel to go in and out on foot. It was as heavily built as the huge main gates, and on their second pass, they saw it open to allow a sentry to emerge. Inside, they could see an entrenched machine gun position protected with sandbags covering both gates. If anyone tried to get through, they'd be cut down within seconds.
"That's one tough cookie," Wes exclaimed. "The only way I can see in there, short of a helicopter assault, would be to use armor. Otherwise, you'd be shot full of holes before you got halfway to the main house."
Taylor could see they all looked down. It was always going to be hard, but none of them expected it to be impossible. And yet, operating inside foreign territory, where they weren't able to bring to bear the massive power of NATO weaponry, impossible was a word that came to mind. Had they travelled all that distance for nothing? Fought their way out of the ambush at Kabul, survived the faulty Antonov airliner, and killed the insurgents crossing the river, just to be faced with the cold, hard reality of an operation which had been misconceived, badly planned, and was impractical to execute? There was silence inside the Toyota as Wes drove slowly along the street that ran behind the compound. One of the guards glanced idly at the SUV but saw nothing threatening and continued on his way. Further along, a mechanical digger was busily ripping earth out of the ground. He smiled; the nightmare of road repairs was obviously not confined to the US. A workman with a simple wooden sign in his hand the size of a ping pong bat and painted red on one side and green on the other was directing traffic past the road works. The red side of the bat was facing them, and Wes pulled to a stop.
"This street sure could do with some repairs," he muttered. "I reckon it's more potholed than the surface of the moon."
It was a fair description. Already, Taylor's body was on fire from the repeated jolts and jars as they traveled around the Termez streets.
I’ll need to take more Oxy when we get back if I’m going to be able to function tonight.
"They're not repairing the road surface," Ollie laughed. "They're nothing like bad enough for them to make repairs. I saw the sign at the end of the street. They're fixing the sewage system, doing work on the old tunnel system. It's hundreds of years old, one of the earliest systems in Asia. They're…" He looked around. All three men were staring at him. "What? What did I say?"
"I think you just gave us the way in," Wes replied.
* * *
They ate a meal in a restaurant close to the hotel, and Ollie managed to keep the talk on the subject of cultural anthropology for the benefit of anyone who may overhear. Then they returned to the hotel and began making preparations for the assault. Taylor had an impulse to phone Kate before they left, but he rejected it. It was a death thought, the temptation to say goodbye for the last time. He resisted it, and they went over the last minute preparations. His cellphone had fallen onto the bed. It rang, and Ollie picked it up. He looked at the screen and turned to Taylor.
"It's Ned Ryan. I recognized the number. I guess he wants to know if we're going ahead. Do you want me to answer it?"
"Leave it, fuck him. Let's keep our minds on the operation. Do you have any idea where the sewer system may come out in Masood's compound?"
"Almost certainly there'll be an inspection cover close to the main house. They're always kept out in the open for obvious reasons. They can stink bad in the hot months, but they're always kept clear as well. Blockages happen all the time."
They all stared at him. The prospect of going into that noisome tunnel system was daunting, but if they were to have any chance of completing the operation, and surviving afterward, it was the only way.
"Okay, listen up, people," Taylor told them. "We'll park the Land Cruiser next to that repairs site. We should be able to slip into the trench out of sight of the guards from there."
"The smell will be appalling," Ollie pointed out. "I mean, so bad it could literally knock us out."
"The respirators in the SUV," Wes pointed out. "If we wear those, it'll keep the worst of it at bay."
"Good idea," Taylor acknowledged. "We'll take in as much explosive as we can carry, and Wes can mine the house using a timed detonator. I'd say we’d need five minutes to get clear. Any more and it'll give Masood the chance to escape. We'll have our respirators, so we can carry the teargas grenades. If things start to go wrong, it'll give us a chance to make a getaway without them coming after us. Okay, we've all been there, and we've done this before. Right, Levi?"
The young man grinned. "Fucking A."
"You sure you're ready for this? The guys we’re going up against aren’t rookies. They've been fighting our people for a long time."
"I'm ready.”
He studied Levi's face for a few moments. He'd only been in action once, and that against an enemy who had none of the motivation or experience of these Islamic crazies, but his father had trained him, Jerry Yates, a former Seal. He'd missed few of the battle skills that made the frogs such skilled and tough fighters. Taylor looked out the window. It was already beginning to grow dark, a time when visibility was at a low point, a time to mount an attack on an unsuspecting enemy.
"Good enough, let's do it."
They walked down the stairs, around the back of the hotel, and climbed into the Toyota. The ride to the rear of Masood's compound was almost an anti-climax. Wes expertly threaded the vehicle through the crowded streets. When they reached the part of the road that was dug up for sewage engineering, the workers had already left, and traffic was threading its way past the cones and barriers. He parked the vehicle at the end of the barrier, as if it belonged to the staff employed on the site. It meant they could leave the vehicle using the passenger side doors, out of sight of the armed patrols. They had the weapons and equipment in holdalls in the rear. Taylor and Ollie slid out of the vehicle, and Levi passed them the bags. They dropped them out of sight and waited until the other two men joined them. Then they picked up the canvas holdalls and started climbing down a long ladder that reached into the bowels of the earth. He stopped at the bottom and waited while the others climbed down. The most urgent need was for the respirator, and he pulled it on. The stench was appalling and enough to knock a man unconscious. After a few breaths, he began to feel better. The others joined him and donned the masks. The tunnel stretching ahead of them was almost a meter wide and half as high again, enough to walk unimpeded through the thick, fetid stream that lay at their feet. They put on the gear ready for the attack, armored vests, webbing, packs, and assault rifles. Taylor took a flashlight from his webbing and switched it on, sucked in air through the filter of the respirator, and started forward; into the darkness, into the labyrinth that led into the heart of Ismail Masood's fortress. There was no need to navigate. The first sewage access point they reached would be the one they wanted. He led them for what he estimated was a hundred meters, periodically shining his flashlight up to the roof of the tunnel, and exactly where he'd expected to find it. It was there. A steel hatch, about a meter long and half a meter wide, with steel rungs set into the side of the tunnel to clamber up. He passed his assault rifle to Ollie, who was right behind him, and signaled he was going to take a look outside. He climbed to the topmost rung and gently pushed. The service hatch cracked open slowly, and he was able to look out. Once more, their luck had held. They were in the center of what appeared to be the garbage bins at the rear of the house, a place where they'd be unlikely to encounter any guards stationed. He pushed the hatch open even more and looked around, and sure enough, it was clear. He signed to Ollie that he was going up, and then pushed the hatch open and to one side and climbed out. Ollie was right behind and handed him his assault rifle. Taylor took up a defensive position while the rest of them climbed out. First Ollie, then Levi, and lastly Wes. He was only partway out of the service hatch when a door opened, and a bright floodlight was switched on. A burst of machine gun fire parted the air close to his head, and he heard men shouting orders all around the compound.
"Ollie, Levi, get behind cover. Wes, get out of there fast and keep your head down."
"What the fuck's going on, Boss? What happened?"
"What happened is they knew we were coming? It's a trap, people."
"So…"
"Yeah. We're fucked."