Текст книги "Whiplash"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“Hey, Colonel, you know where McGowan is?” he asked over the radio.

“He’s with me,” said Danny.

TARID LAY ON THE GROUND, TRYING TO WILL AWAY THE PAIN of the bullet crease on his leg. He saw the vehicle down by the road, perhaps twenty yards away, and knew it must be Kirk’s.

So Kirk expected to be paid for helping him escape? Was it a reward or a ransom?

Whatever it was, he wasn’t getting it.

Tarid turned to the two men sitting nearby. They were staring into the distance, shell-shocked but unhurt.

“You two—come with me,” he said as he struggled to his feet.

Neither man moved.

“There’s a village north of here. Two kilometers,” said Tarid. “Saad Reth. I have a friend there who can help us. Come with me.”

One of the men blinked. That was the only acknowledgment that they had heard him.

“If you help me get to Saad Reth,” said Tarid slowly, pacing his Arabic, “I will make sure you are rewarded. One hundred euros apiece.”

The offer of more money than either man had handled in a lifetime stirred them to action. The man who had blinked was the first to rise. He helped his companion up, and together they started following Tarid, who was limping but moving along quickly.

“We have to stay away from the people who blew up the camp,” he told them. “Go, before they pay attention to us.”

“Saad Reth is a long walk from here,” said one of the men, noticing his limp.

“The distance doesn’t matter.” Tarid pushed himself forward. “The army will be after Kirk, and we’ll be long gone. Come. As fast as you can.”

DANNY FOUND TILIA HUNCHED AGAINST THE FENCE. HER fists were clenched and propped against the side of her head, arms crossed at the wrists. He knelt down and touched her shoulder.

“Tilia?”

Her body heaved but she didn’t raise her head or talk.

“Come on then,” said Danny. He scooped her up. She was light, incredibly light.

Nuri was still firing at the machine-gun posts on the north side of the camp, but there was only sporadic return fire. The Sudanese army officers were regrouping their men, mustering for a counterattack. The battle had seemed to last for an eternity, but barely ten minutes had passed since the Catbirds initiated the onslaught.

Hera was waiting at the fence when Danny arrived.

“Did you send Tarid through?” Danny asked.

“Yes. Where’s McGowan?”

“I know where he is. You think you can carry her?”

“Is she coming with us?”

“Yeah. We’ll drop her off along the way.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I don’t care what you think. Take her.”

Danny deposited Tilia on Hera’s shoulder. Hera didn’t say anything, turning and carrying her from the compound.

Danny went to the trench. He didn’t see McGowan. His heart leapt: He thought he’d been wrong about him being killed.

But the only mistake was where he had left him. A moment later Danny spotted him a little farther on in the trench.

As gently as he could, he picked up the battered body and double-timed it through the disabled portion of the minefield.

“Skipper, we got problems here,” said Boston over the radio. “Every one of these bastards wants to come with us. And I can’t find Tarid.”

Danny asked the Voice where Tarid was. It found him moving a quarter mile away, on the road west.

“It’s OK,” said Danny. “He’s escaping. Better that he gets away on his own.” Much better, he thought. “Hera’s bringing Tilia, Uncle Dpap’s translator.”

“Yeah, here she comes now.”

“I’m sixty seconds away.”

“What do I do with these people?”

“Tell them to run.”

Danny saw the small crowd ahead of him. Boston fired another burst, then pushed the prisoners away. They were angry and scared, but they were also depleted from the day spent without food. They began walking away from the camp, some north, some west.

“Jesus, is that McGowan?” said Boston as Danny put him in the SUV.

“Let’s go, Boston.”

“Shit.”

“I said, go.”

“Yeah, all right, Cap. I’m sorry.”

Boston climbed in. The mercenaries squeezed into the back.

“Go south two miles and stop,” Danny said. “I want to make sure Tarid’s OK.”

The truck’s rattle settled after a minute, and they rode in relative silence across the empty land. The rain had started to let up.

“Everybody out,” said Danny when they stopped. He was being crushed by two of the mercenaries, who’d crowded next to him.

He went around to the back and got a blanket from the wheel well. He wrapped McGowan’s body in it and set him down in the back.

Tarid, meanwhile, had continued to the northwest. The Voice located him near a village named Saad Reth.

“Nuri, what’s in Saad Reth?” Danny asked.

“Not much. Little village.”

“You think Tarid can find transportation there?”

“Maybe. If he has friends there. Hard to say.”

“Colonel, your lady friend wants to talk to you,” said Hera.

“She’s not my lady friend,” said Danny, annoyed.

“Whatever. She wants to talk to you.”

Hera needed a serious attitude adjustment, but now wasn’t the time. Danny walked over to Tilia, who sat cross-legged on the ground.

“Am I your prisoner now?” she asked.

“You’re not our prisoner. We just rescued you.”

“Who are you?”

“Kirk.”

“They were calling you colonel.”

“I was once. I was a lot of things.”

Tilia stared at him. She wanted desperately to believe in something—she wanted to believe in him. But whatever world he belonged to, it was too far removed from hers. And hers had just imploded.

“We’ll get you back to your village,” said Danny.

“No.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“I can’t just leave you here. Come on. You can come with me.”

Tilia straightened. One of the Sudanese medics had bandaged the bullet wounds in her shoulder. Her pelvis and abdomen were on fire, but the pain did not prevent her from walking.

“I have to pee,” she told him defiantly.

“All right.” Danny put his hand out to help her up.

“I want some privacy,” she said.

“Sure.”

He went back to the truck. Tilia began walking toward one of the mercenaries, who smiled when he saw her coming. Even with her wounds, even in the dark and the rain, she was a beauty.

The look in his eyes revolted her, but she continued toward him. The young man smiled nervously, unsure what she was doing. She put her hand gently on his arm, then leaned up, lips pursed as if to kiss him.

He couldn’t believe his luck—he bent forward to return the kiss.

As he did, Tilia grabbed the rifle from his hand. She spun it around, put her thumb on the trigger, and blew a hole through her head.

36

North central Iran

BANI ABERHADJI COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. The president of Iran, Darab Kasra, was traveling to America—the Satan Incarnate—in a few days’ time.

Treason.

Blasphemy.

“We can’t allow this,” Aberhadji said. “We cannot.”

General Taher Banhnnjunni stared at him. He, too, had only just heard.

“How could he make such a decision without consulting the Revolutionary Guard?” continued Aberhadji. “Did this come from the ayatollahs?”

“He must have spoken to them,” said Banhnnjunni. He was stunned. The decision to destroy Iran’s nuclear capability, though a terrible one, at least had some logic to it when balanced against the West’s concessions. But this—this could not be explained at all.

“You are the head of the Guard, and the council,” said Aberhadji. “You weren’t consulted?”

“No.”

“That is an insult. An insult to all of us. They feel—they think we are worms to be disregarded.”

Aberhadji’s anger consumed him. He stalked back and forth across the general’s office, as if some of it might dissipate.

But it didn’t.

“We can shoot him this morning, this afternoon. Blow up his house. Blow up his car, his plane,” said Aberhadji.

Banhnnjunni took hold of himself. “You’re raving,” he told Aberhadji. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Our country is being led by a traitor and blasphemer. We are being led back to the days of the Shah!”

“The black robes are still in charge.”

“Do you think they authorized this? This?”

Aberhadji could not fathom that it was possible. Banhnnjunni, on the other hand, was not so sure. He had seen the Guard decline greatly in position over the past year. His own status was also in doubt.

He struggled to think logically.

“The president will have no support when he comes back,” said the general. “This will end him with the people.”

Aberhadji felt as if his brain was unraveling. He had never been guided by emotion—and yet his feelings now were overwhelming. There was no way to be calm before such a gross provocation.

“He’ll remain in office. And he has the army,” said Aberhadji. “Better to strike then, kill him there.”

“Make him a martyr?”

“It would be ironic. His death would surely serve a purpose. We could use it to rally the country. To return to purity, as we have always proposed.”

Banhnnjunni hated the president as much as Aberhadji did. But murdering him was a complicated undertaking.

“The plane would be the best place to strike,” said Aberhadji. “It would be easy, and it would be a symbol. Or we could arrange it so it appeared that the Americans did it. Perhaps that would be better.”

“What if they retaliate?”

“They wouldn’t dare. How? What would they do? Invade? Then we use the warhead.”

Banhnnjunni felt a second blow, this one even harder.

“You told me the project was several months to completion, if not a year,” said the general.

“It is very close. It can be pushed closer,” said Aberhadji. “And—I will make contingencies.”

Aberhadji had, in fact, already prepared a contingency, and had a full warhead, though as Banhnnjunni said, he had told the small group on the council who knew of the project that they were still a distance away from completing it. This was not technically a lie—they could not yet strike the massive blow they intended. But they could do great damage. And would, if necessary.

“You lied to me?” said Banhnnjunni.

“Of course not. We can strike if necessary. Just not in the exact way, in the best way, we planned. I will rush everything—we will be ready for the Americans, once we kill their bastard.”

“We will not kill our president,” said the general.

“We must.”

“I have to think about this,” said General Banhnnjunni. “I have to talk to others. To the black robes. In the meantime, you will do nothing.”

“We can’t let this sin stain our nation.”

“Take the long view, Bani,” said the general. “Compromise at the moment may be the right way.”

“My long view ends in Paradise,” countered Aberhadji. “Where does yours end?”

37

Base Camp Alpha

OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING, THE GOAL OF THE OPERATION against the Sudan prison camp had been a success: Tarid was free, and heading toward Khartoum. Not only was he being tracked via satellite, thanks to the biomarker Danny Freah had planted, but the CIA was scouring intercepts and digging through databases and other sources to get as much information about him as possible.

But the operation had cost considerably more lives than Danny had hoped. The Sudanese and the rebel dead weighed on him more than most people would have thought. But the real blow was McGowan.

In war, sacrifice was inevitable, and even the best leader has to make decisions that led to deaths. But Danny felt that he should have planned the attack differently, found some way to protect McGowan. He brooded about the attack, reviewing it over and over in his mind.

There were many small changes he might have made, and yet they might not have led to a different result. The ferocity of the Sudanese defenders had been surprising. In general, they were not considered either effective or fierce. They had proven to be both. With a more aggressive leader, they might have cost the Whiplash team even more casualties.

On the whole, the Americans had performed well. The small group was starting to bond; Danny found that he was coming to like Nuri as well as respect him.

There was one glaring exception: Hera. She was the sand in the Vaseline. Or as Boston put it, “The only word to describe her rhymes with witch. And it ain’t rich.”

Danny had worked with difficult personalities before. Special operations attracted them, and it wasn’t always easy to weed them out. But peer selection and an extended training and test period helped. One fierce op generally rounded them into shape—or showed that they were never going to fit.

“I can bust on her ass,” said Boston, reviewing the situation after they got back to Base Camp Alpha. “Pound a little respect into her pointy head.”

“I’ll handle it,” said Danny.

“You going to bag her?” Boston asked.

“I can’t while the mission is continuing. We’re short as it is. And she speaks Farsi better than Nuri. If this guy’s Iranian, that’s a big plus.”

“Your earphone thing doesn’t translate for you?”

“It does. But it’s not the same. Anyway, I can’t bag her now.”

“You can do anything you want, Chief. You de boss.”

Boston had been struggling to find a title other than colonel that fit. Boss, chief, skipper—nothing felt good on the tongue. He was just so used to calling Danny “Captain,” nothing else felt right.

Nuri, meanwhile, was trying to figure out a next step.

“The good news is, Tarid’s in Khartoum,” he told Danny when they settled down to take stock together.

“What’s the bad?” said Danny.

“Besides the coffee?”

“From now on we operate only in places with Dunkin’ Donuts,” said Danny. “What’s the bad news?”

“The tag didn’t take properly. The signal is deteriorating. The rain must have diluted the marker before you got it on him.”

He’d also lost some marking Tilia. Nuri wasn’t sure whether that had been an accident or not, and didn’t mention it.

“Can we track him?” asked Danny.

“For a while.” Nuri got up and poured himself some more coffee. “Starbucks would be acceptable, if we could get it into the budget.”

“Yeah, but you can’t beat the doughnuts at Dunky.”

“True.” Nuri took a sip. As bad as the coffee might be, he was addicted. “The signal will be gone inside a week. I want to tag him again. I’ll go over to Khartoum. We’re going to have pull the plug here. Our cover is toast, we have to get rid of the mercs, and I have to believe the army’s going to be out for blood after this. So we’re best off recycling.”

“How?”

“Well, I think we have enough sensors at the milk barn down there to hold us for a bit. So we concentrate on our Mr. Tarid. Follow him. Find out where he’s going. We play civilian for a while. We can base ourselves in Khartoum. There are plenty of westerners there. We go to the backup covers. Restock.”

“Agreed,” said Danny. “But one priority you didn’t mention—we have to get McGowan’s body home.”

“Yeah, I know. That sucks.”

Nuri had never lost a fellow officer on a mission before. He really didn’t feel as if he’d lost one now, either—he still divided the team up mentally, separating himself from Danny and the Whiplash people. He felt bad about McGowan, but didn’t ache the way Danny did.

“We can’t take everybody into the capital anyway,” said Nuri. “You oughta stay away anyway.”

“Why me?”

“Because he’s seen you. You and Hera. And Boston.”

“And Flash.”

“Right.”

“I’m going with you,” said Danny. “We’ll take Sugar. Boston and the others can take care of getting everything out of here.”

“All right.” Nuri pulled over the chair and sat down. “We’re going to need more people eventually.”

“True. You think we would have done better last night with more people?”

“I think we did OK last night,” said Nuri.

“It was a hell of a bloodbath.”

“That’s Sudan these days. Sucks. I’m sorry we lost McGowan,” Nuri added.

“So am I.”

“But we did all right. We’re not—we don’t have all the firepower you guys used to have at Dreamland,” Nuri said, thinking Danny was comparing the two operations. “So we’re never going to have overwhelming odds.”

“We had some troubles in ops there, too,” said Danny, thinking back. “It just gets harder.”

He meant accepting the losses, but didn’t explain.

“The next batch of people we get should be heavier on the Agency side,” said Nuri, getting back to his point. “Your spec ops guys are OK shooters, but they’re not really spies. We’re going to need more spies, I think. Be useful following Tarid.”

“Sure.”

“I mean, we can train anybody. Not anybody—you know what I mean. I started on the paramilitary side myself, then moved over. It’s not that hard.”

“Yeah?” asked Danny. He got up and got himself coffee.

“I don’t know,” continued Nuri. “Maybe it isn’t for me. It’s my blood. My grandfather worked for the Agency. And my great-grandfather was with the OSS. I grew up listening to stories about it.”

“Your parents were CIA, too?”

“Skipped a generation.”

Nuri’s father had been about as far from a CIA type as possible, at least partly in reaction to his own father, with whom his relationship had always been poor. His mom was even more opposed to the CIA and military. But in a way, both had done quite a bit to prepare him for his career. His father was an executive with an oil company, and they had lived almost exclusively in the Middle East and Northern Africa when Nuri was growing up. His mother had insisted he learn the local languages and customs wherever they lived—critical background for his job.

“I think we just take the best people we can,” said Danny. “Train them the way we want. Cross-train them.”

“Agreed. But for now—”

“We play it by ear,” said Danny. “Just like we’ve been doing. Besides, just because they’re from the CIA doesn’t mean they’re perfect.”

Nuri took that, correctly, as a reference to Hera.

“What are we going to do about her?” he asked.

“Hera gave you problems too, huh?”

“I think she’s jealous. She originally trained for the MY-PID program and didn’t get the first selection. She can’t be top dog, and her nose is out of joint.”

“I’d say whoever rejected her spent some quality time with her,” said Danny. “Did you know her?”

“We met a few times. We never worked together.” Nuri shrugged. “She speaks Farsi. That’ll be pretty useful.”

“I know. We have to keep her for this mission. I’ll talk to her.”

“Good luck.”

JUST BEFORE SHE WOKE, HERA DREAMED ABOUT MCGOWAN.

He was in the tent with her, standing across from her bed.

“What?” she asked him, sitting up.

He shook his head slowly.

“What?” she asked again. “Are you warning me about something? Did I do something wrong?”

The dream faded into daylight.

Shuddering, she got out of bed quickly. Pulling on her clothes, she went for something to eat.

Danny happened to be in the house. He was surprised when she came in—she wasn’t due back on watch for another six hours—but was glad she was there. No one else was around and he could get their talk over with.

“Hera, good morning,” he said. “There’s coffee.”

“Good.”

“Bagels are good.”

“They’re kinda slimy. I’ll stick to the powdered eggs. Thanks.”

He waited until she’d had a few sips before he started talking to her.

“I want you to be more careful when you’re talking to people,” he told her, deciding to start out diplomatically. She had, after all, been through hell the night before.

“What do you mean?” she snapped.

“You get nasty when things get tight. With me. Yeah. With everyone else.”

Hera thought of the dream. Last night, in the minefield, she’d yelled at McGowan.

“I—I yelled at McGowan. In the minefield. I called him a jerk.”

“You pretty much yell at everybody,” said Danny.

Hera saw McGowan’s face. Her eyes began welling up. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Danny Freah. She started to turn away.

Danny grabbed her arm. “Hey, I’m still talking to you,” he told her. “Don’t walk away.”

“What? Am I your kid?” she said, struggling to hold back her tears.

Danny let go of her arm. “Look—” He stopped, wanting to soften his tone, understanding that McGowan’s death hit everyone hard.

“Leave me alone,” Hera said, quickly turning and walking out. She barely made it to her tent before exploding in sobs.

THE TALK HADN’T EXACTLY GONE AS HE PLANNED, AND Danny decided he’d give her a little time before trying to have a better discussion. But a few minutes later the Voice reported that Tarid left the house in Khartoum where he’d been staying. Within minutes it was obvious he was going to the city airport.

There was only one flight out for several hours, MY-PID reported: a UAE flight to Morocco.

“The question is where he’s going from there,” said Nuri. “The possibilities are endless.”

They might have been, but MY-PID didn’t have to waste its time counting them. Instead, it interfaced with a CIA database that tracked passenger manifests. Tarid had not used his real identity, but only forty people showed up for the flight. Cross-checking against earlier flights, the computer quickly identified his alias and found that he was en route to Athens.

There the trail ended.

“We just need to get to Athens before that flight,” said Danny. “And we can follow him from there.”

“I follow him. You can’t. He’s seen you already.”

“We may be able to use that.”

“Maybe. But not to follow him.”

Tarid had a very long layover in Morocco, which gave them an opportunity, but getting to Athens wouldn’t be easy; Tarid had picked the quickest route.

“He must be going to Iran,” said Nuri. “Changing flights and IDs along the way. If that slows him down, maybe we can beat him there.”

MY-PID had already searched flights for matches against Tarid’s other aliases and possible aliases. There were only two direct flights from Athens to Tehran after Tarid arrived. The computer ruled out all but three names on those flights as possible aliases.

“How about Bahrain?” said Danny. “They fly to Tehran.”

“Yeah,” said Nuri.

MY-PID considered the possibilities and made a new suggestion: Arash Tarid was flying as Arash Arash, due in at Imam Khomeini Airport late that night from the Arab Emirates.

“We still can’t beat him,” said Nuri. “The best we can do is miss by a half hour.”

“What if we flew to Kuwait,” said Danny. “Or better yet, Azerbaijan?”

“From Khartoum?”

“From anywhere. If we get up to Egypt, we can get a U.S. flight. They can bring us right into Baku.”

“Then what?”

“We take a boat.”