Michael considers this, and suddenly his thoughtful face changes to fear. “But that doesn’t make it right. That was pretty stupid. You could have gotten somebody killed!”
Now it’s her turn to be irritated. Her accent slips out a little bit. “Yeah, or maybe I saved a few lives…and maybe you could take them once in a blue moon!”
Michael holds up a hand, “All right, I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just that I’d hate to see anything happen to you guys”
“I know,” she says quietly, looking down.
Coming over to her, he gently lifts her chin back up to kiss her. “No more Slurpees from there.”
“Okay,”
He kisses her again. “And it’s a good thing you’re on our side.”
She says nothing, wondering as she kisses her husband about what to do with Boo’s gun, and trying hard not to wonder about where her husband’s been. She smells the alcohol on his breath, beneath the toothpaste and the body wash. He’s not a drunk. He’s allowed to drink. That’s not the concern. It’s who he’s been drinking with that makes her wonder.
Chapter 6
Kabul
It is dawn, and a sleepy Sami waits on a nearly deserted street. He watches two dogs fight over garbage in the brightening orange light and considers throwing rocks at them. A car speeds towards him trailing a cloud of dust. The white Mercedes sedan flashes its high beams, and he raises his hand in greeting. As soon as the sedan slides to a halt, the passenger side back door swings open. After hesitating for an instant, he climbs in.
There are two other men inside, plus the driver. “Salam,” Sami says, but gets no greeting in return. The man sitting in the back with him says something in Farsi, which Sami doesn’t get, except for “cocksucker” left in English for him to understand. Everyone laughs, except Sami.
“My name is Ish,” the man says. “My boss says you can help us kill Americans. Is this true?”
“Perhaps, if you have the money to pay the Russian,” Sami replies.
They all laugh again. “Yes, we have the payment for him indeed,” Ish smiles. “And we have something for you.”
Sami isn’t feeling the love right now. He laughs nervously, hoping that God’s will is in tune with his own.
Chapter 7
Camp Phoenix, Kabul
To the sounds of Willie Nelson, McDowd and Bone are on the road again. Turning out of the sprawling base and onto the main road, they get a departing salute from “Rambo”, the burly Afghan gate keeper the Army adopted when it moved into the former trucking company’s compound. He used to be a driver before the war, but when the Taliban killed his wife, he made it his mission to protect the American’s and their base ever since, using only his trademark lead pipe and nerves of steel.
While reviewing the after-action videotape of their recent outing, Bone’s cop eye spotted something odd, a blond haired guy in a neighborhood he shouldn’t be in. So being the inquisitive lads they are, and being that it’s their job, they’re brining the video tape to the spooks at the embassy annex to see it they can ID the guy.
It is a short drive, barring any unforeseen events like roadside bombs. Bone drives while McDowd keeps an eye out ahead for anyone running away, a good indication of a nasty surprise. Their nerves are a bit frayed by the time they park. They go inside via elaborate security doors to the awaiting Marine guard detail at the reception desk. “IDs, guys.”
As McDowd pulls out the paperwork, someone shouts from behind the entryway. “Sergeants McDowd and Washington?” a voice asks from across the hall.
Walking towards them is a trim thirty-something blonde guy, medium build with a civilian business casual look to him. His IDs dangles from a lanyard.
“They’re okay guys, they’re with me,” he says, extending a hand. “Dave Edwards. Your CO said you’d be stopping by. How was the drive over?” Edwards asks as he leads them along, down stairwells and halls. McDowd knows that the unassuming guy could just as easily snap a neck as drone on about Kabul traffic. Spooks have to be the best liars; their lives can depend on it.
“The real work gets done in here,” Edwards says as he swipes his access card next to a door.
“Dang!” Bone smiles as they walk into a large room that is a maze of computers, flat-panel TVs and hanging wires framed by glass-partitioned cubicles along the walls.
“Looks like a Vegas sports bars,” McDowd says mockingly.
Edwards chuckled, “Every now and then we do put on a game.”
The countless screens flicker with live feeds from the mixed assortment of the Unmanned Aerial Vehicles buzzing over the country. From the small model airplane sized “Ravens” his guys used to the “Global Hawk,” there are probably more aircraft in the air here than over New York.
Edwards slides open one of the cubes and ushers the men inside. “Guys, this is Lynn. She’s one of our video wizards.”
A simple “Hi” is all they get.
“You got that tape?” asks Edwards.
McDowd hands it to Lynn. “It’s cued up.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Edwards offers cheerfully. The taped rolls and pops up on the screen. “There, in the door.” McDowd points.
Edwards leans in for a better look. “See him, Lynn?”
“Got him,” She takes digital still from the tape. “Give me a couple with him.”
Then an attractive young lady in cammos joins the group. “How’s it going, guys?”
Edwards introduces Private First Class Darcy Davis. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, “but I thought it would be nice to offer Sergeant Washington a tour.”
He looks at McDowd, who shrugs. Bone is no fool, but he doesn’t mind being run off, especially by such a cutie. Besides, he doesn’t have clearance for this kind of stuff. Bone is regular Army, not Intel. “Cool, I could do that.”
“He’ll be up in the mess when you guys are done,” Davis says.
“Later, man,” smiles McDowd.
After they leave, McDowd turns to Edwards. “Nice move.”
“Ignorance is bliss, I always say.” He nods to the screen.
A few more clicks of her mouse, and Lynn hits the return key. A program begins running on the image. Halfway down the frame, Edwards laughs and picks up the phone. “Bob, I’m in bay three, wait till you see who turned up.”
McDowd looks at him quizzically. “You know this guy?’
“A blast from the past.”
Bob shows up a minute later and Edwards points to the screen. The sixty-ish guy, looking more like a high school principal than the CIA’s assistant chief of station, lifts his glasses off his nose. “Good Lord! Where’d you find that?”
Edwards looks to McDowd for the explanation. “Char Qala, yesterday. ANP were grabbing a suspect on a tip.”
“Four Castles, huh…” he says aloud, using the name. You could almost hear the wheels spinning in Bob’s head.
“Find him. I want to know what he’s up to, and who he was visiting,” he orders, then turns to McDowd. “McDowd, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“I guess you’ve been re-assigned. Welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency.”
The little hairs on the back of Dan McDowd’s neck tingle. Edwards points at the image.
“That’s Sasha Isovich Malekov. Ex Spetsnaz, ex-GRU, ex-KGB, ex–SVR and an extreme fuck up. Even the Russian mob didn’t want him.” He turns around to make a drinking gesture. “Once upon a time, he was a real tough guy, but got his ass kicked by the bottle, and for a Russian, that’s saying a lot.”
They were winding their way through the halls now, heading back the light away from the world of shadows.
McDowd looks at the picture, “One hard looking dude.”
“He works for Kosmipol Pravda as a photographer, but I’m sure he wasn’t in that shit pit to sight-see.”
“Iran,” McDowd says.
Edwards grins, “So, your
file says you’re here on an FBI deferment, and you’re going home soon.”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Well, don’t worry, we won’t keep you. You have an interesting background. You speak Russian, Arabic and Pashto?”
“And a smattering of Hebrew. I grew up near Brighton Beach. My dad was a cop,” McDowd says.
“Huge Russian community, and they’re saving you a spot in counter intelligence?”
“You trying to recruit me?” McDowd smiles.
They stop outside the cafeteria door. “Hey, we’re always looking for talent. I was just thinking, you’ll be a big asset to them, doing translations in some nice cubicle. They’re stretched thin these days.”
It was a dig, but probably a correct one. They enter the busy cafeteria. McDowd spots Bone at a table surrounded by food, waving at them. Seeing this, Edwards stops and faces McDowd again. “Did you ever consider the Agency?”
McDowd starts to object, but Edwards cut him off. “I caught your vibe. You my friend are a player. We aren’t too far apart. We have that edge. You go back home now and all you’re going to do is follow people around. You’ll be bored senseless. This…” he dramatically points downward, “is where the fun is. The rush ain’t happening there, it’s here.”
They both know he’s right, and Edwards can see him considering it. “No way, I’m outta here,” he says laughingly.
“Just think about it,” Edwards suggests, handing him his card. “Besides, spy chicks are way hotter than those stuck up FBI broads.”
Chapter 8
In the dusty heat of his old orange Fiat, Sasha waits for his future. He knows what to expect, and what they might try to pull on him, but he’s ready. He lights another Marlboro and takes a nice deep drag off it, savoring the moment.
“This shitty place, this shitty car, this shitty vodka,” he thinks, glancing at the bottle, “will be a thing of the past.” He flicks the butt out the window, and then takes one last, long pull off the liquor, finishing it. Checking himself in the rearview mirror, he doesn’t like what he sees, and hasn’t for a while.
“That will change, starting now.”
He puts on his sunglasses, and out the door he goes. Being European, he has no problem getting into the hotel and up to his floor. The vodka always makes him cooler and calmer, but it isn’t dampening his excitement.
Once off the elevator, he stands listening, letting his ears look ahead for him. All seems quiet as he pads down the hall to find the room. Again, he listens, straining to hear beyond the door. He adjusts his MP-433 Grach pistol in the small of his back. Finally, he knocks, not too loud, not too soft. He hears Sami’s muffled voice inside telling him to wait, and in less than a minute, he opens the door. A smiling Sami ushers him in, and Sasha walks into his future, the door softly closing behind him.
Chapter 9
McDowd is snoozing away when he feels a kick on his foot. He opens his eyes to see Bone and Edwards standing over him.
“Your Russian’s turned up,” Edwards says.
Bone makes a cutting gesture across his neck.
“Really?”
“Yeah, found him about a half hour ago,” Edwards says.
“Cool, so we’re done?”
Edwards smiles, but Bone answers. “Captain Taylor says he wants his best people on this one.”
“In other words, I’d like to keep some real cops around a little longer,” Edwards says.
An old Peugeot wagon taxi is waiting for them with two scraggly looking guys in the front. Edwards makes the introductions.
“Chiller, Bone, this is Joey Mayo and Tommy Freaks. Freaks and Mayo for short.” They shake hands all around before pulling out.
“You guys Company or contractors?” Bone asks. They look like special operators.
“S.A.D.” Freaks tells him with a smile.
The Special Activities Division is the CIA’s paramilitary group, the guys and girls who are America’s human swords. They don’t come any sharper, having been forged in the fires of the SEAL and DELTA teams.
Every branch of the military has their bad asses, the highly trained soldiers who put the “special” in Special Forces. The cream of that crop gets invited to try out for the varsity teams. However, being a razor has drawback. It doesn’t pay very well. Like military pilots, they can make a ton more cash working in the private sector. Patriotism doesn’t pay for a kid’s college education. The happy medium is working for SAD, if you are gifted enough to get in.
Word is getting around fast about the dead Russian, especially since the hotel has about as many journalists as bedbugs. McDowd is happy to see that Captain Taylor has sent over their squad of M.P.’s to secure the place. They call them the “Bone Heads”, a group of young men that Bone has been training not only to be good soldiers, but also good cops when they return to the world.
They salute smartly as Bone, McDowd and Edwards enter the hotel lobby.
“Morning Boss. We’re on the top floor, premises is secure,” a young PFC named Sweet tells them.
“Good man. Only spooks allowed up there. Get somebody to pull the surveillance drive, if they’re working,” Bone orders.
Sweet eyes Freaks and Mayo warily. Freaks winks.
They get the low down on the elevator ride up. “The maid came in to clean the room. Then runs out screaming. No body seen noth’in.”
“Whom was it registered to?” McDowd asks.
“Dubai businessman, checked out for a morning flight,” Sweet reads from his notes. “We’re checking the airline to make sure he got on.”
They find another M.P. waiting for them when they get off.
“Who’s been inside?” McDowd asks.
“Just the maid and her supervisor,” Hassan answers. “You’ll see. Very bad.”
Edwards smiles at McDowd. “You awake for your crime scene classes at Quantico?”
“You bet.”
“Well, you tell us if we’re about to screw up.” He nods to the group. “Shall we?”
They walked in. It smelled like shit, literally.
Bone lets out a long and mournful “Danggggg.”
“Try not to touch anything,” McDowd warns.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Bone says in disgust.
It is a large room, laid out for longer stays with a kitchenette. Blood is spattered all over the sink, likely from the cordless drill with a long quarter inch bit in the basin. “Not very neat.”
“No wonder the maid was upset,” Bone says.
“Yeah. This is going to be a bitch to clean up,” Edwards breathes.
They enter the bedroom area.
“Whoaaaa!” Edwards laughs. McDowd just whistles. On top of the bed are the remains of Sasha Malekov, duct taped to one of the room’s chairs, face down. The mattress is soaked in his blood.
“See the feet?” Bone says. There is a hole in the heel of each foot.
McDowd takes a close but careful look. “Now I know what the drill was for.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just half the fun,” Bone says, looking around for something. “Yup, see here?” He points to an electric toy train transformer. “After the holes, they put these here electric wires in, and zappity-doo-dah.”
McDowd blushes. “Hey, it’s the training, Bone-man.”
Edwards takes a close look at the drill work.
“This is looks like VEKAK. I’ll bet you a steak Iranians did this,” Bone says.
They moved around the room silently, letting their eyes travel from place to place.
“Hell of a mess,” Bob comments as he enters the room. “So what do you think, Detective Washington?”
“Well, at least three perps. This guy is pretty big to handle, but there doesn’t seem to have been too much of a struggle. Two did the dirty work, by the amount of paper towels at the sink.” He places the back of a finger to the vic’s neck. “He’s still pre
tty warm. Obviously, they wanted something out of him, and quick. Either they didn’t have time to clean up, or they didn’t care. They’ll take the DNA for the hell of it.”
“So we know how and who, but why?” Bob asks aloud.
McDowd has found his pants, and his wallet with cash still in it. “Seems that robbery wasn’t the motive.”
“What else you find in there?” Bob asks.
“IDs…here’s an address,” he says, handing it to Hassan.
The Afghani looks at it. “This is where we were yesterday. Down the street.”
“I say we check it out,” McDowd concludes.
Bob’s phone chirps with a text message from Mayo downstairs. “Russians are here.”
Edwards looks at his watch. “Good news travels fast.”
“Tell you what, you boys go check out the house. I’ll have somebody toss his place,” Bob says.
“What about this guy, we just gonna leave him there?” McDowd asks, gesturing to Malekov.
“Hassan buddy, have your folks take him down to the morgue, no ID okay?” Bone suggests.
“Good idea,” Bob says. “The Russians know they have a dead one, but they don’t know who. It’ll buy us a little time.”
They file out and get the elevator down to the lobby.
“Hell of a way to go,” McDowd says with a final backward glance.
Moments after they step off the elevator into the lobby, three men approach them. Leading the way is “Uncle” Yuri Dimitriov. The sixty-something guy is wearing a rumpled business suit, and his crazy mop of gray hair has him looking more like a mad scientist than the top Russian intelligence officer in Kabul. The SVR’s Rezident, or Chief of Station, storms down the hall, followed by his security thugs, or siloviki.
Sweet and Freaks move to cut them off.
“Guys, let them by,” Bob says.
“Robert! Shame on you! How can you let such a thing happen? It’s bad enough that you have tossed this country down the shit hole, but now this? A Russian citizen, murdered right under your noses! Shame!”
“Hold on, Yuri, what are you talking about?” Bob shoots back.
The two old spooks have a long history of competition between each other, and Bob knows his bluster is for show.
“I want to see our citizen!” Yuri shouts dramatically.