Black Site (31 page)

Jamal nodded slowly. “Okay. Please promise me you will not speak, and you will not fight anyone.”

“I promise,” Kolt said. He hoped like hell it was a promise he could keep.

Jamal turned and headed toward the factory, still walking stiffly and self-consciously. Raynor knew he’d put the helpful young man through a lot in the past few days, and he also knew he would not be alive without him.

Racer followed him toward Buchwald’s factory.

*   *   *

Less than ten minutes later Raynor and Jamal climbed back into the truck. Bob had shifted over behind the wheel, the engine was already running, and he immediately pulled into traffic. Without speaking he headed west back through town and toward the Hayatabad road to the north, the way back to Peshawar.

He looked over to Jamal in the left seat, saw the young man to be sweat covered and white as a ghost. Kopelman just patted him on the shoulder as a way to say both
I understand
and
I’m sorry.

Then he turned and shouted back to the man in the backseat just now uncovering himself from the blue burka. “Damn it, Racer! I hope you have one hell of a good explanation of why you pulled that stunt!”

Kolt shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t let me go if I asked permission.”

“Go
where
?”

“We walked the perimeter of Buchwald’s factory. Bob, I figured it out. I know how to get into that place without being sighted by any sentries. If we pick up a couple of items in the market and come back here tomorrow morning, I can get in and get a look at Buchwald’s computer.”

“The sentries won’t see you?”

“They won’t see me get in. I’m not saying they won’t see me once I’m inside.”

“So you are going to kill ten guys?”

“If I have to, you’re damned right I am. Anyway, I only saw four on the outside.”

Bob drove in silence through the darkness. In minutes they had left the town behind and turned north. With good luck and good traffic flow they’d be in Peshawar in a half hour.

Kopelman thought it over as he drove. Finally he said, “No. No way. Too risky. We found the German, we found the choppers. We’ve passed that on to Langley. We reconnoitered the factory and confirmed it is still occupied. We’ve done enough.”

Raynor barked back. “Enough for what, Bob? We’ve found a pair of helos that we can’t hit from the air because of collateral damage. We’ve also found five prisoners that we can’t rescue, and potentially forty Taliban about to be used in an al Qaeda plot that could, easily, kill hundreds. An op at an unknown time, an unknown place, and … shit, it’s an unknown op.”

“You’re not going into that factory, Racer. It’s too dangerous.”

“When we get back to Pesh, I want you to call Grauer. We’ll see what he says.”

“I’m in charge of you while you’re in-country.”

“And Colonel Grauer is in charge of you! See if he orders you to order me into the factory to get access to Buchwald’s computer. I guarantee that he will.” He paused. “Grauer won’t mind risking my life for that potential intel haul, and I don’t mind either.”

“I
do
mind, Racer, although at the moment, the thought of you taking a bullet in the ass is pretty damned appealing, I’ll have to admit.”

“I can do it, Bob. Trust me.”

A long pause as the Hilux cleared the gate at the exit to the congested village. There was no checkpoint for those leaving.

“I’ll think about calling Grauer. But I’m going to tell him what I saw, and what I saw … you can
not
penetrate.”

“Pete knows what I can do.” Kolt said it in a confident tone, and he was confident Grauer would let him try.

But could he do it? On that question the confidence left him.

Raynor had no idea.

*   *   *

Jamal dropped Raynor and Kopelman off in a square a quarter mile from Bob’s apartment. The heavyset American spy had no reason to not trust his Afghani agent now—surely if Jamal was playing for the other team neither Kopelman nor Raynor would still be alive. Nevertheless, there was no operational need for Bob to show the agent exactly where he lived. After parting ways with Jamal, the two Americans walked a circuitous route back to Bob’s flat, passing electronics shops, spice shops, auto mechanics working late into the evening. Bob stepped into a small restaurant while Kolt circled the block to keep moving and came back around in front of the eatery just as Bob stepped out with a bag of cooked rice with bits of lamb.

The two men sat down on mats in Bob’s living room just after nine in the evening. They ate, mostly in silence, and then after he’d pulled rice and meat from his thick beard and licked his fingers clean, Bob Kopelman turned on the sat phone and called Pete Grauer.

Kolt drank bottled water and listened intently as Kopelman told Grauer about the drive to the factory, and of Kolt’s reckless reconnaissance, in drag, no less, of the perimeter. Bob did not protest Raynor’s actions to Grauer as much as Kolt had feared, though he did say more than once that Racer was a risk taker.

Then Bob told Pete of Racer’s desire to try entering the factory. Bob was still firmly against the attempt, feeling the CIA had enough intel to act against the cell. Even if the Agency did not have the entire operation wrapped up or even a good understanding of the plot, Kopelman argued, the CIA could use their own assets in the area, whatever those might be, to get into the factory and to hit the warehouse. From Bob’s side of the conversation Kolt got the impression that Grauer was skeptical of the CIA’s understanding of things in and around Peshawar, and to Kolt this meant he’d probably get the go-ahead to attempt to penetrate Buchwald’s location.

He was right.

Bob nodded, handed the phone over to Raynor.

“Sir?”

“Can you do it, Kolt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have one source telling you there are as many as ten armed personnel in the target location. What if he’s wrong?”

“There might be fewer.”

“And there might be more.”

“I’m willing to take that risk. I’m willing to do it alone.”

A pause on the other end of the line. “Look. I talked to Langley today. They knew nothing about Buchwald, about the warehouse and factory south of Peshawar, about Chechens in Pakistan, about Turkish and Yemeni AQ operators running an op in Peshawar. You and Bob are the tip of the spear on this.”

“Did they listen to you? Are they taking this situation seriously?”

“Very seriously. They are sending a guy over to Pesh tonight—he’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning. He’s Special Activities Division, a veteran, top-notch by his reputation. He’s going to debrief Kopelman.”

Kolt looked up at Bob, said into the phone, “The Agency is going to debrief a guy they deemed unreliable, who has been running an agent who they also deemed unreliable?” Bob just rolled his eyes and shrugged. Kolt was more direct: “Assholes.”

Grauer’s chuckles crackled over the satellite link. “Yeah, hypocritical, but smart on their part. I’m actually a little surprised. They seem really worried about this. Almost like they know something we don’t about what’s going to go down.”

“So, you are saying you are giving me permission to go into the factory?”

Another pause by Grauer. “Racer, what I’m about to say may seem cold, but I’ll go ahead and say it anyway. I am willing to risk
you
to do this, but I’m not willing to risk Bob. We can use any info we can get, but not at the risk of the best Radiance human intelligence asset in western Pakistan. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear. I just want Bob’s agent to drop me off near the target location tomorrow at noon, and then go someplace to stand off until I call him for the pickup. Bob won’t be involved at all. He will stay up here in Pesh and meet the guy from SAD.”

The connection hissed for a moment. Kolt imagined Grauer sitting in the Ops Center and running his hand over his razor-short hair. Finally he said, “Your plan is authorized.”

“Thank you, sir. Passing you back to Kopelman.”

Bob took the phone back, his eyes locked on Raynor’s. “Racer looks happy, which means you said yes.” He listened, then told Grauer he’d call him after Raynor left with Jamal the next morning, and then meet with the CIA operative for the debriefing. He hung up and then dialed Jamal’s mobile phone. As it rang he changed his mind, disconnected the call.

“Might as well let the kid get a good night’s rest. If I tell him he’ll be going on a mission with you in the morning, he won’t sleep a wink.”

THIRTY-SIX

Early the next morning Kolt found Kopelman making tea in the kitchen. They sat in silence. The only light in the room was the glow of the hot plate as the chai brewed. Kopelman served it with milk and sugar for them both.

Raynor had slept little. He knew that this morning’s mission would be one hell of a risk. He’d be going in alone, one man against unknown odds, but he’d seen no alternative. No one else was here to hit that factory. Maybe this SAD guy coming to talk to Bob could put something together, but Kolt knew there was no time to waste. The al Qaeda op was imminent; if he could glean any intel from Buchwald’s place, then he could pass that on to the CIA officer and speed up any counteroperation the Agency would put together.

Just like going into Zar’s compound three days ago, he saw no alternative to risking his life.

While he sipped his chai he placed one of the two Kalashnikov rifles on the tiny kitchen table. In seconds he stripped it down to its component parts. He used a rag to wipe out the insides, inspected the color and the grit in the black grease that covered the rag. He then retrieved a toolbox Bob kept in his garage, and he lubricated the weapon and reassembled it. He slid the magazine back into the well and hooked it into place with a loud click. He racked the bolt and flipped the safety back up into position.

He then placed the weapon back on the table and reached for his tea.

He sipped the lava-hot milky liquid slowly. Bob Kopelman surprised him by breaking the stillness with a powerful voice.

“I’m going with you.” It was an announcement. A proclamation.

Kolt lowered his tea. “Into Darra?”

Bob shook his head. “Into the factory.”

Kolt laughed in surprise. “No … no you’re not.”

“I know I’m not exactly Delta Force material”—he looked down at his corpulent frame tugging at the fabric of his local clothing—“but in any scenario you’ll find yourself in down there in Darra Adam Khel, you will benefit with an extra set of eyes, my language skills, and an extra gun.”

“Grauer said he’d sacrifice me, but you were too important.”

Kopelman waved the comment away as irrelevant. “Forget Pete.
He
may send men into harm’s way to be sacrificed, but you are under
my
care here. If you go,
I
go.”

Raynor regarded the comment as he took another sip of tea. “That sounds a bit like Pashtunwali.”

Kopelman looked like he was going to disagree. Then he just sighed, said, “What can I say? I
have
gone native. Pashtunwali makes sense in a situation like this.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.” Bob’s eyes turned cold suddenly. “Plus, I have other skills. If you find Buchwald, I may be able to get him to talk.”

“You don’t think I can be persuasive when necessary?”

“Let’s just say my presence may relieve you of that burden.”

Kolt did not understand the comment, but he knew when there was no point in arguing. This was one of those times. “All right, Bob. I’ll have to go into the factory alone and then open a side door for you. I’m going to have to vault a ten-foot razor-wire fence, and, pardon me, but I don’t think you would survive climbing over that fence.”

Bob chuckled. “I don’t think that fence would survive me climbing over it.”

Raynor went into the garage to grab the other Kalashnikov. It could stand for a thorough cleaning, as well.

*   *   *

Bob contacted Jamal at eight in the morning. He’d given him a good night’s rest by delaying the call. Bob told him that they would need to go back to the factory. He gave the Afghan his address for the first time, instructed him to come directly to pick them up. Jamal arrived at nine and parked the Hilux in Kopelman’s garage. Together the three men set out on foot in Peshawar toward the bazaar, the same market where Jamal Metziel’s mother and brother had been killed back in 2010.

Under Kolt’s direction Bob bought a thick rug from an old shopkeeper. Raynor stood right there with him, made no eye contact with anyone, kept his head low. A few passing merchants tried to sell him their wares; he waved them away without a glance. Jamal stood close. It was his job to distract anyone here who paid any attention to Racer. He was nervous—Jamal was always nervous when Kolt was around. Kolt understood completely. He knew the danger Kopelman’s local agent was in.

After leaving the carpet shop, Raynor carried the heavy rug on his shoulder, used it to shield his face from half of the stalls and the vendors and customers that stood in them. They climbed some steps in the market, passed dozens of little metal-and-concrete shacks selling all types of weapons; swords, knives, guns, even morning stars and maces. The instruments were more decorative than functional. Bob, Kolt, and Jamal scanned each one with bored expressions, though they were, in fact, desperately looking for one item in particular. There were no words between them, and twice Kopelman stopped upon seeing something for sale, but both times Raynor slowed and followed the older man’s gaze, then just picked up the pace after determining the items to be unfit for his use.

Finally they hit the jackpot. They’d passed many tiny kiosks selling knives, but all the previous shops’ selections had been entirely ornamental, or else cheap jackknives or switchblades made in China. Raynor had given Bob a specific mission to find only quality-made, razor-sharp throwing knives, and he had all but given up hope they’d run across anything worth inspecting further, much less purchasing. But a simple stall nestled near the top of a narrow cul-de-sac of shops at a tiny kiosk all but hidden in deep morning shadow sold all manner of knives, and there, on a table near the back, over one hundred simple well-made, hand-crafted steel shanks lay on a red cloth.