He arrived at Talbarok at eleven thirty in the morning. Carter approached from the main road to the south, staying well under the speed limit of sixty kilometres per hour so he didn’t attract any unnecessary attention from the police. There was no sign welcoming him to Talbarok. The main road simply branched off into a wide thoroughfare surrounded by neatly gridded streets, bland apartment blocks and chaotic markets, set in a broad plain of cultivated fields and grasslands. In the distance, the snow-dusted peaks of the mountains crowded the horizon.
Carter breezed down the thoroughfare for half a kilometre, grateful to be back on level ground once more after the twisty, bone-jarring ride through the mountains. The town itself was the usual modest affair, a collection of grimy restaurants, drab cafés and worn-looking public buildings. The potholed roads looked like they hadn’t been repaired since the Berlin Wall came down. Carter saw a lot of big statues of the president-for-life striking various heroic poses. The only investment the place had seen in years, as far as he could tell.
He made straight for the centre of town and stopped at the corner of a small square bordered on three sides by a row of garishly lit restaurants, discount shops and a 1970s-style hotel. A marble statue of the president dominated the middle of the square. Carter parked the Yamaha at the corner of the square and glanced round. He wondered why the Americans had chosen to base themselves in the boondocks. But then he remembered the airfield to the north.
They’re going to send everything out from there, Hakimi had said.
So that’s what Vann is doing, Carter thought. The bastard is working with his American partners to fly out heroin in bulk.
This was the only sizeable settlement close to the airstrip. From here Vann and the others could load up a private jet with the smack and send it on to its final destination. Their own distribution network. Eliminate the middleman. Cut up the product on arrival and quadruple their profits.
He marched briskly across the square towards the six-storey hotel. Carter had no concrete leads on where to find Vann. Hakimi had mentioned something about a facility, but he’d offered no further details. So Carter had to attack the problem from another direction.
Look for the three Americans. His business partners.
Find them, and you’ll find Vann.
They would need a place to stay in Talbarok before and after the exchange with the Tajiks, Carter figured. They’d prioritise comfort over convenience, because in his experience Americans always did. They’d want a hotel with access to Wi-Fi, decent food, air conditioning, TV, coffee, a functioning shower. At a bare minimum.
In a place the size of Talbarok, there were usually three types of establishment. A budget lodging for itinerant adventurers and backpackers, a more expensive joint in the centre of the town, and a mid-range place located somewhere on the outskirts. The Americans definitely wouldn’t choose the budget option. And Carter figured they’d want to be close to the action along the main thoroughfare. Walking distance to the local amenities. Therefore the central hotel was the logical option. That was where he’d start looking.
He swept through the entrance and beat a path across the lobby to the reception desk. A sharply dressed concierge greeted Carter with a polite smile. He listened keenly as Carter asked whether they had had any American guests lately. The guy shook his head and flashed his best apologetic smile.
The concierge was sorry, he said, but they had no American guests staying with them at the moment. Hadn’t received any for a while, actually. The guy sounded disappointed. Only Germans. He suggested that Carter try the Ochus Hotel across town. He might have better luck there.
Carter remounted the Yamaha and jetted north, following the directions the concierge had given him. Six minutes later, he found the Ochus Hotel. A salmon-pink building on the northern fringes of the town. Four storeys high, with sugar-white balconies fronting the street and pedimented windows. In need of obvious repairs, but architecturally more pleasing than the brutalist structure in the town centre.
A guy with a unibrow stood behind the desk, wearing a bored expression as he idly worked the computer. The place looked more like a shrine than a functioning business. Another statue of the president dominated the middle of the lobby. Paintings of the Great Leader hung from the walls. Carter saw dozens of them.
At the sound of his approaching footsteps Unibrow looked up from his screen and straightened his back. Like a soldier snapping to attention. More photographs of the president hung from the wall behind him, Carter noticed, continuing the hero-worship theme.
He said, ‘English? You speak English?’
Unibrow nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said in a thick accent. ‘You need a room?’
Carter shook his head. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think he’s supposed to be meeting a few other lads. Americans. Maybe they’re staying here?’
Unibrow glanced away. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am not permitted to give out information on our guests. Company policy.’
Carter dipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills. He slapped them down on the counter and said, ‘This might help jog your memory.’
The concierge glanced furtively left and right and discreetly slipped the notes into his jacket pocket with the practised ease of a veteran bribe taker. ‘Now that you mention it, we do have some Americans here,’ he said in a lowered voice.
‘How many?’
‘Three. They’re on the third floor.’ Unibrow paused, then said, ‘You did not hear this from me, OK?’
Carter said, ‘These Americans. What do they look like?’
The concierge flashed a puzzled look. ‘Like Americans, you know? Like you, I guess. Same height. Two of them are big guys. Very big. Like wrestlers. Like on TV.’
‘What about the third guy?’
‘Older.’ He shrugged. ‘Not so big. Not a wrestler.’
‘Have they had any guests?’
‘No.’
‘What about my friend?’ He described Vann. ‘Tough-looking bloke. Blue eyes, greying hair. Beard. Late forties. Northern Irish accent. Have you seen him around here?’
‘No, I am afraid not.’
‘What about your colleagues? My mate would have been passing through here an hour ago. Maybe one of the cleaners saw him.’
‘Sorry.’ Unibrow shook his head. ‘I have been on duty since seven o’clock this morning. If your friend was here, I would have seen him. We have only the Americans.’
‘Where are they now?’ asked Carter.
‘Upstairs.’ The concierge darted a quick glance towards the lift, as if he was concerned that his guests might stroll out at any moment. ‘In their rooms.’
‘All of them?’
‘Just the big guys. The older man, him I have not seen today.’
‘How long have they been staying here?’
‘Three days. They are due to check out tomorrow.’
‘Did they say what they’re doing in town?’
Unibrow shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. I guessed they were tourists. We get many visitors here now. From all over. Talbarok is the birthplace of our president,’ he said proudly. ‘Many people come here to learn about his life. The president himself opened the museum last year, you know.’
Carter searched the guy’s face closely. ‘You haven’t got a clue what they’re doing here? Where they might be going? Nothing at all?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
Carter took out two more twenties from the Jabar Hakimi Life Insurance payout. The concierge glanced again at the lift, then coughed and said, ‘All I know is that the two men upstairs are going out this afternoon.’
‘When?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. They asked me to book a car to pick them up.’
Carter looked quickly at the clock on the wall next to the portraits of the Great Leader. Six minutes to twelve. A little over two hours until their ride was due to arrive.
‘Where are they going?’ he asked.
‘They didn’t say. They just asked for a driver to collect them.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘It’s none of my business,’ the concierge replied. ‘They wanted a car, no questions asked. I did my job. That’s it.’
Carter slapped down another forty bucks. He said, ‘This is to keep your mouth shut. Don’t say a word to the Americans, or anyone else, about me. We never had this conversation, I was never here. Got it?’
‘Of course. Have a good day, sir.’
Carter about-turned and strolled out of the lobby. He made for a grimy teahouse three doors down from the hotel and took an outside table with a clear line of sight to the hotel entrance, putting him within easy reach of his Yamaha. He stowed his rucksack between his legs, ordered a glass of green tea from the gap-toothed waiter and paid the bill in dollars. Then he settled down to watch the hotel.
Carter had an innate ability to close out the noise of his own mind. It had been drilled into him during the jungle phase of Selection and sharpened in the years he’d spent at Hereford. He could shut off the pain and tiredness in his body. Like dialling down the lights on a dimmer switch. Which is what he did now. He stared at the entrance, not moving a muscle as he concentrated all of his energies on the mission in front of him.
Carter was aware that he was winging it. He had no idea where the Americans were going or what their game was. For all I know, they might be heading out for a nice kebab.
But I doubt it.
This had all the hallmarks of a major drug deal. Carter could almost see it mapped out in front of him. The operation to bring the heroin out of Afghanistan using the smuggling route. The double-cross of their Tajikistani partners. The onward transfer of the product from the roadhead to a private facility in Talbarok. Then the escape on a cargo jet filled with top-quality heroin and cash.
The two Americans at the hotel were the grunts, Carter reckoned. Big guys, the concierge had said. Very big. Like wrestlers. Hired muscle, probably brought in as extra firepower for the double-cross at the roadhead.
Which made the third American the boss, with Vann as his 2iC. Vann and his associate wouldn’t need the muscle to accompany them for the onward journey to the airfield, Carter decided. No need. They had already done their job.
The boss would have told them to wait at the hotel while they handled the flight arrangements. Probably with orders to report to the facility later that afternoon to collect their payments. The big Americans were probably sitting upstairs right now, talking excitedly about how they were going to spend their hard-earned money. Cocaine, women, champagne. The ultimate party.
At exactly two o’clock, a late-1990s Toyota Camry turned off the main road and pulled up in front of the hotel.
A minute passed.
Then the hotel doors yawned open, and two pasty-faced figures walked out into the glare of the afternoon sun.
They were obviously American. Ex-SF. Both of them had the look. Carter recognised it in the way they carried themselves. They were tightly coiled. Slow and heavy, but capable of snapping into violent action in an instant. They wore khaki combats, dark boots and polo T-shirts so tight they were practically shrink-wrapped around their bulging biceps. Both carried small rucksacks.
They’re leaving, Carter thought. They’re going to collect their money.
Endex.
Carter was already out of his chair and snatching up his rucksack as the Americans folded themselves into the back of the Camry. He paced over to the Yamaha, mounted the saddle, kick-started the engine and took off in the same direction as the taxi, heading east on the main road. He held right back, keeping a safe distance of two hundred metres from the Camry as it continued east.
Traffic was light. Carter saw delivery trucks, trolley buses, battered taxis. A few locals buzzed around on Indian-manufactured bikes. Private car ownership wasn’t really a thing in Tajikistan, seemingly.
He followed the taxi as it hung a left at a T-junction and rattled north for a couple of kilometres down a two-lane road lined with neon-lit fashion stores and American-style fast-food outlets. They passed a brightly painted bus terminal in a mainly residential area on the outskirts of town. Two minutes later, the Camry dropped its speed before it angled down a bumpy side street.
Carter took the same route, nudging the Yamaha past several derelict properties.
A hundred and fifty metres away, the taxi had stopped in front of a two-storey brick building, at the end of a dilapidated industrial estate.
Carter stopped beside a derelict garage. He cut the engine on the Yamaha, dropped the footstand and dumped his backpack on the ground. Across the road a kid in a replica Argentina football jersey was kicking a leather ball against a brick wall. Carter tucked himself into the shadows of the garage and carried out a recce of the stronghold. Making a visual assessment of the target. He didn’t want to walk into another one of Vann’s traps.
Most of the other units in the industrial estate looked vacant. There was an old steel shipping container to one side of the estate, a couple of rubbish dumpsters overflowing with flattened cardboard boxes. Pallets and wire mesh cages.
A steel roller shutter had been lowered down over the vehicle ramp at the front of the stronghold. There was a small door to the right of the shuttered opening, and a faded business sign on the front of the building printed in some sort of Cyrillic script. Carter spotted a security camera mounted to the wall above the side door. Fluorescent lights glowed through the windows.
This must be the facility, he realised with a hot thrill of anticipation.
Vann must be inside.
I’ve found him.
He could guess at the set-up. The American boss would be running a front business out of the unit. Electrical goods, or a laundry service. Something unlikely to arouse any curiosity among the locals. The Americans would have brought the heroin here directly from the roadhead, for safe storage before its onward transfer to the airfield. The cash profits from the deal would be washed through a series of offshore shell companies. Carter was looking at a highly sophisticated trafficking operation. Months of planning. Huge profits.
We’ve been working with them for months, Hakimi had said, right before the light had gone out in his eyes.
The taxi waited outside. Engine rumbling, fumes eddying out of the exhaust. The Americans clearly weren’t planning on staying in the area for longer than necessary. A couple of minutes at most. They would be keen to collect their winnings and bug out. Get on a plane, crack open the bubbly and start celebrating.
Carter focused on the building. The security camera was the biggest obstacle to a frontal assault. As soon as he approached, the occupants would have eyes on him. Anyone inside might escape before he could breach the entrance. Or reach for a gun to defend themselves, depending on how confident they were feeling.
Which led to problem number two.
He was facing an unknown number of targets. Maybe even a trap.
I’ve got to find out what I’m up against here.
If I go in half-cocked, I could get my fucking head blown off.
Thirty seconds later, the Muscle Brothers stepped out of the side entrance. Both of them carried small daysacks in addition to their own rucksacks. Bundles of cash, no doubt. Their slice of the heroin profits. They were laughing as they strolled back over to the Camry. Like they’d hit the jackpot. They were looking forward to hitting the casinos and the strip joints. The party of a lifetime. Wild times. As long as you didn’t have a problem with getting rich off human misery.
The lights were still on inside the building.
Carter shrank back from view as the Camry rolled past, crouching behind a stack of wooden pallets next to the garage. He waited until the vehicle had turned back onto the main road before he stood up from behind his cover. Then he walked over to the kid.
‘You speak English?’
The boy trapped the football under his bare foot and eyed up Carter suspiciously. ‘A little.’
Carter produced a twenty-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket. ‘Want to make some money, lad?’
The kid’s eyes widened. Carter pointed to the stronghold, indicating the adjacent yard. A two-metre-tall wire fence enclosed a patch of bare ditch littered with rubbish, metal trolleys and pallets.
‘See that yard?’ The kid nodded eagerly. ‘I want you to go over there, kick your ball over the fence and ask for it back. Then tell me who’s inside. Can you do that?’
‘Why?’
Carter gave him a sharp look. ‘Do you want the money or not?’
‘OK.’ The kid made a grab for the note. Carter snatched his hand away. The kid shook his head. ‘Money first. Then I knock.’
Carter laughed. ‘I might be a foreigner, but I ain’t stupid. Knock, then money.’
‘OK. You wait here.’
The kid scooped up his football. A moment later, he was running off in the direction of the industrial park. He stopped just short of the yard to the right of the unit, picked up his ball and hurled it over the top of galvanised steel fence. It landed with a thud amid the clutter of garbage, bouncing on the dirt before it rolled to a halt beside a wheelie bin.
Carter quickly shifted back into the shadows of the garage. He crouched down behind the pallets, looking on from his concealed position as the kid jogged round to the front of the unit.
He felt a twinge of unease at sending in the kid to unwittingly clear the entry point. Carter knew there was a slim chance that the Muscle Brothers might have been the last to leave the building. Maybe they had rigged it up with explosives and deliberately left the lights on, ready to detonate if anyone else approached. Or someone might come out with a gun before Carter could breach the stronghold.
The kid knuckled the wooden side door.
Several moments passed.
No one answered.
The kid knocked again.
Same result.
The kid stood back. Scratched his head. For an instant Carter thought he might turn around and give up.
Then the door snicked open. Carter breathed a sigh of relief.
No booby trap.
From his vantage point 150 metres away, Carter saw a figure standing in the gloom of the doorway.
Vann.
He stared at the kid while the latter made a pleading gesture, pointing at the yard. Vann didn’t seem moved. A man with bigger concerns weighing on his shoulders than a kid’s football on his property. He said something to the boy, slammed the door shut behind him. The kid waited. Thirty seconds later, the door opened again. Vann handed him the ball.
The door closed.
The boy jogged back over to the garage, carrying the ball under his arm. Carter moved forward from the pallets and nodded at him. ‘What’s the craic, lad?’
‘There is only one man inside,’ the boy replied, slightly out of breath. ‘He looks like you.’
‘Like me?’
The boy laughed and pointed at Carter’s face. ‘White. But older.’
‘You didn’t see anyone else inside?’
‘No. Just the white man and the truck.’
‘A truck?’ Carter frowned.
‘Yes.’ The kid spread his arms bear-hug wide. ‘Big truck. Like this.’
Carter pressed the crisp twenty into the kid’s palm. The boy clenched his fist tightly around it. Carter waved a hand in the direction of the main thoroughfare and said, ‘Do me a favour. Go and get yourself a new ball or something. Get out of the area.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
The kid flashed a toothy grin and scampered back down the street. Carter lingered in the shadows of the building until the kid had hurried off in the direction of the main road. He shoved the rucksack behind a pile of rubble outside the garage and cast another look up and down the road, making sure he was alone before he deholstered the Grach semi-automatic concealed beneath his shirt.
He thumbed the safety on the left side of the polymer frame, keeping the pistol down at his side as he broke forward across the estate. He could feel the weight of the full clip in the Grach. Eighteen rounds of 9 x 19 mm ammunition. Ready to drop anyone who might be lurking inside the stronghold.
Carter reached the nearest unit and then increased his stride, hustling towards the stronghold from an angle to avoid being captured by the security camera. He didn’t want his face showing up on anyone’s monitor, not until the last possible moment.
In another six quick steps he made it to the side door leading into the stronghold. It looked sturdy. There were signs fixed to it at head height, with lots of warning symbols. Carter didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to. He got the gist of the message.
Do not enter. Trespassers beware.
Too fucking right, he thought.
He backed up a metre, giving himself space to generate plenty of momentum. He paused momentarily.
Raised his left leg.
Kicked out.
There was a sharp splintering crack as Carter drove the heel of his Gore-Tex boot at a point to the left of the scuffed handle, striking the door at its weakest part and breaking up the internal locking mechanism. The door flew back on its hinges, slapping against the internal wall.
Carter brought up his pistol.
Then he charged inside.