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Kara spent the next day investigating the tunnels under the safe house and familiarizing herself with the vehicles in the barn.
After eating two stale granola bars for breakfast, she again descended into the tunnel. She knew where the tunnel to the left led. That was the tunnel she had initially used to gain access to the home. It surfaced under the potting shed in the backyard, but she had no idea where the tunnel to her right went. A separate electrical plug sat dutifully next to a vacant outlet and Kara plugged it in. She was initially startled by the extent of the tunnel’s duration. It burrowed through the thick compacted soil at least fifty yards prior to it curving a little to the right. Above her, sturdy posts held up boards that prevented the ceiling from caving in.
She slowly made her way through the tunnel, continually scanning the ground; Kara was fully aware that Kornev may have set up tripwires or other booby traps that could prove fatal. Once she reached the bend in the tunnel, she breathed a soft, “Wow.” She still couldn’t see the end. The tunnel continued in the same basic direction, but the rightward curve obscured the end. Kara sensed that Kornev hadn’t booby-trapped the tunnel, because it was hidden so well. Booby traps could slow you down if you were in a hurry, and you could too easily blow yourself up if you weren’t careful.
After two more gentle turns, Kara finally came to the end. Another utilitarian ladder made from old lumber and thick nails led to a trapdoor above. Not knowing what, where, or who she literally might be poking her nose into, she gently pressed up on the wooden door and peeked out through the slit. Nothing but darkness. She used the top of her head to lift the door another few inches before turning on her phone’s flashlight. She raised it up to the opening and stared through the crack. It looked like she was inside another closet, but which closet? It couldn’t be the same house, could it?
She took the same precautions she had taken at Safe House One, silently climbing the ladder until she stood inside the closet. Kara stood still for a moment and listened. Nothing. No sound at all. She opened the closet door a crack and peered into the room. No one. She entered the small bedroom, walked to the door and looked down the hallway. All clear. Feeling more confident, she walked silently down the hall and into the living room. It was just as deserted as the other home.
The other home, she thought to herself. Kornev didn’t have just one but two homes interconnected via the tunnel. Talk about a person who was both paranoid and security conscious. However, in a way, she really admired the commitment. The Russian had built entire complexes which included well-maintained properties, vehicular fleets, and a plethora of security measures and defenses—all in addition to well-fortified tunnels with offensive weaponry and a variety of exits and entrances into the safe houses.
Rather than returning via the tunnel to the other house, Kara decided to leave through the front door and walk back. That would give her a better idea of how the homes were situated to one another. She needed to know if the homes were connected via a road. Were they separated by a culvert? Did the properties appear to be located on the same plot of land? All those questions needed to be answered. If she found herself running overland from an adversary or needing to move from one home to the other, it was essential to know the lay of the land.
Kara opened the front door and was caught totally off guard to see a man standing in front of her. The CIA agent fought her natural inclination of someone who was found in a place she shouldn’t be. Instead of projecting guilt or seeming apologetic, she smiled graciously. Using her best Russian accent, she asked him in English, “Can I help you?”
The man also looked a little shocked, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to be home. He had the tell-tale olive complexion of a Pakistani, a slight build, sharp facial features, and black hair with some graying throughout. Kara guesstimated he was in his mid-50s.
Speaking in English with a Pakistani accent, the man responded, “I am the caretaker of this property.”
Kara smiled and said nothing, like she didn’t owe this man any explanation.
The man looked at her suspiciously. He inquired, “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Kara gave the man an indignant look and responded in an annoyed tone, “I was told by the owner I could stay here while my father is in the hospital.”
“And who is the owner?” the caretaker asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Kara said, narrowing her eyes.
The man shifted his weight from one side to the other and looked Kara over, apparently unsure how to proceed further.
Kara said nothing.
“OK,” said the caretaker. He turned and walked back toward a small scooter parked on the circular dirt driveway.
Kara crossed her arms over her chest and stared the man down until he was out of sight. Then she stepped outside and closed the front door behind her. After she got her bearings, she began to walk cross-country toward Safe House One.
The walk to the other home didn’t seem nearly as far as it had underground. The homes were very close to one another, almost as if they were built on the same plot of land like for an in-law’s home or a guest home.
Upon arriving back at the main safe house Kara went to the barn and swung open both doors, flooding the interior space with sunlight. By now both the motorcycle’s and car’s batteries were fully charged. She disconnected the charger from the car and set it on the shelf. Set next to the charger were two motorcycle helmets. One would reveal the rider’s face, but the other was a full-face helmet complete with a dark visor. The full-face helmet would provide better protection, and it would also allow her to drive anywhere she wanted without anyone getting a good look at her. If she dressed in some gender-neutral loose clothes, no one would discern her femininity. Her frame was smaller than most Western men, and she was taller than the average Pakistan man, most of whom weighed at least thirty pounds less than their Western counterparts. If she played her cards right, the motorcycle would work out well.
The helmet was a little large for her. It had probably been fitted to Kornev’s big head when he bought it. After cinching tighter the chinstrap, it fit pretty well. Kara put the key in the ignition and flipped up the heavy kickstand with her left foot. She noticed a green light displayed on the small dashboard. Next to the light was a label that read NEUTRAL.
The clutch was a little stiff but that was only a minor concern. It would probably loosen up once she had run the bike a little. She flipped the red switch on her handlebars into the RUN position and pressed the electronic starter button. The bike turned over but didn’t catch. Kara looked down and noticed that the bike had a petcock valve. She turned the valve to RES (reserve), choked the bike as well, and tried the starter again. After a moment or two, the bike rumbled to life. She gunned the motor and held the throttle open a third of the way and allowed the bike to warm up further. Best-case scenario: the bike would idle and work flawlessly. Worst-case scenario: the carb was gummed up with bad gas and would run like crap. She let the throttle find its neutral position and waited to see how the bike would respond. To her surprise, the bike leveled off into a strong idle.
“Yes,” Kara said to herself. She began pushing backwards with her feet, coaxing the motorcycle out of the barn. Once outside, she turned toward the road and stomped once on the gear shifter. She felt the bike click into first gear and twisted the throttle a quarter turn while easing out the clutch. The bike felt eager to get back on the road. The 450cc motorcycle jumped forward and began rolling toward the main road. Not bothering to come to a stop, Kara made a left turn on the dirt road and drove toward the end of the property.
She spent about an hour stopping, starting, going through the gears, driving the bike up steep paths, paying attention to how the knobby tires grabbed the ground, and learning how the bike performed on different types of surfaces. The weight of the bike felt good. Not too heavy. However, if she laid the bike down completely on its side, she had serious doubts if she had the strength to pick it up by herself.
Once she felt she had mastered the motorcycle to the best of her abilities, she drove it back into the barn, shut it off, and turned off the gas petcock valve.
The ugly car was parked behind the bike. She dismounted the motorcycle, placed the helmet back on the shelf, and took the car for a test drive. It ran well, but she realized in a getaway scenario she would need a better plan than simply trying to outrun those chasing her. There was no way the dinky Russian car could elude anyone driving anything larger than a skateboard. She figured that’s why Kornev had left her so many lovely explosives.
After her test drive, Kara stowed the car away in the barn and went back inside the house. She had further planning to do before she took off in the morning to surveil her quarry.
She sat on the musty couch and placed the tablet in her lap. She looked at her phone almost instinctively before remembering it was a burner phone. No one would be calling or leaving texts. If they did, she would have to find a new home.
There was a light knock on the front door. In the dead quiet of the room, it startled her. Kara got up and retrieved her pistol from the end table and hid it behind her back in her right hand.
Without opening the door, she inquired, “Who is it?” again speaking in English with a Russian accent.
“My name is Nasrullah Alvi. I am the caretaker of this property.” The man spoke in English but with a thick Pakistani accent.
Kara told him, “Please wait a moment.”
She walked over to the machine gun, slid the knotted paracord off the trigger and threw a blanket over the gun.
Even though she didn’t intend to let the man inside, she was satisfied that everything inside looked in order. She opened the door about a foot and peered out.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Alvi?” she inquired politely.
The man gave her a smile that lasted a little too long. Kara could tell he was somewhat stunned by her beauty. By this time in her life, she had become accustomed to that reaction. She knew she was beautiful, but that fact served as a hindrance when trying to blend in with the indigenous population.
The man politely inquired, “May I ask why you are here?”
Kara told him her name was Tonya Merkalov and repeated the same backstory she had given the caretaker at the other safe house.
Either Mr. Alvi bought it, or he was simply enchanted with the pretty Russian. Unlike the previous caretaker, he hadn’t asked her who owned the property, but he did ask her name.
“I am sorry to hear about your father,” he said. He seemed genuine. “What hospital is he staying at?”
Kara had taken the time to research Peshawar’s hospitals and responded, “Northwest General.”
The man contemplated the information and was quiet for a moment. Apparently satisfied he had collected enough information to vet the woman, he said, “I hope your father gets well soon.” He nodded and returned to his three wheeled, gas-powered, enclosed rickshaw. The machine sputtered, smoked and headed down the road.
Kara thought it was telling that Kornev hired two separate caretakers for his properties so they would think the homes were separate properties. If the caretakers knew nothing about the tunnels, she surmised no one other than Kornev, and now herself, knew that the homes were interconnected.
Kara walked over to the machine gun. She pulled the blanket off the gun and tossed it onto the couch. She found the cord and reattached it to the gun’s trigger. She noticed the bottle of vodka sitting on the kitchen counter but thought better of it. She needed to stay sharp. Instead of having a drink, she plopped down on the couch and reached for the tablet.
It was lonely in the house, and her thoughts drifted to Marshall Hail.
Part of her wished that she had never met the man. Why? Because she genuinely liked him. It didn’t make much difference to her he was ten years her elder. He had a confidence that he shouldn’t have. After all, he had lost his entire family, and disasters like that tended to break men, not make them stronger. If the broken Marshall Hail had this much strength and fortitude, God only knew what he was like before his family had been annihilated.
Kara thought about the time they spent on his newly acquired island and how almost giddy he was over the purchase. He acted like a kid with a new toy. They had skinny dipped together. It had gone unspoken that neither was ready to go much further. However, they had fooled around a little, feeling each other’s body pressed up tightly during an embrace. A new intimacy. They had sensed the heat, the newness—that intangible feeling called love. Did she love Marshall? She questioned if she would ever be able to love someone she may never see again. This enigmatic tension, a future unknown, was the reason they hadn’t moved forward. The poignant feelings of losing their families still ate at them like a cancer. It was quite possible their unresolved and unfulfilled emotions might just keep them apart forever.
Kara looked at her phone and considered texting Marshall. After a sullen moment or two, she discarded the idea, turned on her tablet, and began to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. She had two homes, not just one to secure. Things were getting more complicated, but they would be just as complicated for anyone who was unlucky enough to find her.