Black Skies (12 page)

T
he sun shone harshly on the same airstrip where Harun had picked him up the week before as Peter Conley waited, standing with a dirty-white 1999 Honda Hobio van and its hired driver, Abbas. The plane, an oldish Beechjet 400 jet, landed in the late morning, an hour late but who was counting, and six boisterous men emerged from the sleek white aircraft. One of them strode ahead of the others with a swagger that marked him as the leader. He had short, hard blond hair, an angular nose and chin, face all sharp corners, and cocky blue eyes that cried out arrogance.
Asshole,
was Conley’s first thought, the second being,
he’s going to be trouble.

“I’m Walker,” he said, extending his hand. “And this here’s Bluejay, Mutt, Tex, Clutch, and Mantis.” There was something fratty about them. Conley had not been a fan of Greek life in college. “You’re—Cougar, right? You’re supposed to be some kind of master spy? Some kind of Jason Bourne, back in the day?” This was a taunt, and Conley wasn’t swallowing it.

“Listen, kid, you think you’re hot shit because you get your orders, you come in and you clean up when guys like me go through all the trouble of handing it to you on a silver platter. I get it, I was a teenager once, too. But this is my territory now, and you and your posse here had better do what I tell you or you can get off my goddamn lawn.”

“Jeez, chill,” said Walker, with a smirk. “We’ll be good, won’t we, guys?” He gave Conley a pat on the back, dismissive masquerading as friendly. “Is this our ride?”

 

He took them first to a house that he had rented the day before for ten thousand dollars cash, no questions asked, to establish their base of operations. In the nice part of town, the part where they were used to foreigners, because he had thought, presciently, that Team Testosterone wouldn’t have the sense to keep quiet and out of sight.

While the Lambda agents wrestled for beds, Conley went out to get them something to eat. He got takeout from a restaurant that Harun had taken him to a few days before. He got dirty looks from the people there, who easily identified him as an American. It was not a good time to be an American in Pakistan, even in relatively cosmopolitan Islamabad.

On his way back to the house, Conley called Harun and told him his impression of the team.

“This is bad news,” Harun told him.

“It’s firepower,” said Conley in a halfhearted defense.

“We will stick out like a peacock in the desert,” said Harun. “It will not be safe traveling with them into the countryside.”

“We could’ve moved in on the house in Zhob if we’d had more people with us.”

“We would not have gotten that far if we’d had more people with us.”

“Harun, I need your help with this,” said Conley. “We’re going to need backup out there.”

“Where is ‘out there’?” asked Harun. “Back to Zhob?”

“No,” said Conley. “Latest info puts Haider Raza out in the Chitral Valley.”

“Allah,”
said Harun. “That is practically Afghanistan. The roads are treacherous, and once there, there will be no other Westerner to be found for a hundred-kilometer radius. You will be sitting ducks.”

“If Haider Raza’s hiding out there—”

“Then he can’t catch a whiff of any incoming Americans before they are standing behind him with a knife ready to slit his throat,” said Harun. “Or else the Secretary of State is as good as dead.”

“We can’t do this just the two of us,” said Conley. “We’re going to need a team with us if we actually raid Raza.” Conley didn’t believe it, but he had to put a good show.

“It is madness.”

“But at least it’s the fun kind, right?”

“All right, all right,” said Harun. “I will go. For you. But I don’t think any good is going to come of this.”

The Lambda tactical team greeted the food with ambivalence—grumbling from its foreignness but eating heartily from appetite. They were in a nice four-bedroom home furnished with a six-person table and chairs, along with mismatched silverware and chipped ceramic plates. Conley sat apart from them, watching their easy banter and stream of dirty jokes and one-liners with suspicion. He was never as lighthearted before a dangerous mission. After they ate, Conley pulled Walker aside to discuss strategy.

“Tomorrow, we’ll move northwest into the countryside,” said Conley. “In the direction of Peshawar through to the city of Dir. It’ll be rough going, and your team needs to be hidden in the back of a truck. It’ll be the better part of a day just to get to Dir, and from there, it’s at least a full day’s ride on a dangerous mountain road to the Chitral Valley. We’re going to need satellite support once we get there. We don’t want to linger long anywhere we can be found, either by Raza’s men or by anyone else.”

“I want to see any of these bastards messing with us,” said Walker. “Six men, highly trained by the US military? I’d like to see anyone try to harm us.”

“That kind of thinking works until you’ve got a Kalashnikov-wielding mob on your ass,” said Conley.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Walker.

“No,
not
whatever,” said Conley. “I am not going to die for your idiocy. You are going to be
goddamn
careful, if not for your own sorry asses, then for what I’ll do to you in Hell if we all get killed because of you.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll get in touch with Figueroa,” said Walker. “He’ll give us the support we need. And we’ll
behave.
”

“Good,” said Conley. “I’ve spoken to a local asset I have here, Harun Syed. He’s arranged for a truck to take us to Dir, where he’s going to get us transportation over the Lowari Pass.”

“Are you saying that he’s coming with us?” said Walker with disbelief.

“Goddamn right he is, and we’re lucky to have him.”

“I don’t like to . . . mingle with the locals,” he said.

“Tough,” said Conley. “He’s our best shot at surviving this.”

Walked scowled. “We don’t need one of
them
with us.”

Conley’s face turned to a frown of puzzled consternation. “We need him,” he said. “He knows the land, he knows the people. And he’s Pakistani. Do you think anyone’s going to talk to a bunch of Americans in rural Pakistan? We can’t run any kind of investigation without him.”

“They’re all traitors,” said Walker. “He’ll turn on us. They all do.”

“He’s a friend,” said Conley, stepping closer so his face was inches from Walker’s. Conley, the taller man, looked down into his cold blue eyes. “He’s
my
friend. And we need him. If you want me to lead you in this op, this is the way it will be.”

Walker looked at Conley in menacing silence, then said, “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t expect me to treat him with kid gloves when we find out he’s a goddamn traitor.”

D
an Morgan arrived at the Hotel Oiseau in Monte Carlo in a silver Mercedes coupe that Zeta had arranged to wait for him at the airport, to the jealous looks of the others who were tagging along and had to take a van arranged by a local asset. Morgan didn’t normally go for European cars, but he had to admit that it had plenty of power and handled beautifully. As he climbed out, he made a mental note to take it out on the Autoroute to see what it could do before the trip was over, if he had any time to himself.

It was a bright and sunny morning, and the sun glinted gloriously off the Mediterranean. The exterior of the Oiseau looked like a palace, done in classic Parisian style, with intricate designs and columns along its length. It stood on a low bluff overlooking the ocean, but the front entrance was on the inland side. He left his car for the valet under an overhang as ornate as the rest of the structure, and a porter took his bags and motioned him inside. The lobby was all done in white-and-pink marble. Elegantly dressed people, young and old, walked past, some headed for the beach, others for the town, everyone wearing designer sunglasses.

“Morgan,” he said at the front desk. He didn’t like using his real name—didn’t like it at all. But it couldn’t be helped this time.

“The arrangements have all been made by Mr. Weinberg, Mr. Morgan,” said the young woman at reception, whose careful ponytail and muted makeup said quite clearly
at your service, but not that kind of service.
“The porter will take you to your suite. Would you like a brief description of our facilities, or perhaps a tour?”

“I’d just like to be taken to my room, please.”

He followed a stiff young man in an unfortunate red uniform into an elevator and down a blue-carpeted hallway to an off-white door with branch and leaf patterns carved into its wood. The porter left his bags on the bed and Morgan gave the boy a folded-up ten-euro note discreetly, as they did, the money never seeing light of day.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and made himself scarce.

Morgan walked out onto the balcony, where he could see the ocean and the boardwalk far below. He had his sunglasses on, which cast the world in shades of yellowish brown, making the greens seem greener and everything else more vivid. It was beautiful, but he felt out of place. It wasn’t there to be enjoyed, not for him. He wished that Jenny were there with him, that they were on vacation. He wondered how she was doing, and thought about calling her, but she probably wasn’t up yet and he didn’t want to wake her.

Morgan walked back into his room, opened his briefcase, and took out a device about the size of a cell phone with a small antenna attached—a bug sweeper, used to check the room for surveillance devices. Over the next twenty minutes, he thoroughly scanned the room, running the device along the walls from floor to ceiling, then the floor and ceiling themselves, then the bed and sofas and ornate wooden furniture, the old-fashioned rotary phone with the wood and brass finish and the Chinese-looking vase with the bouquet of tulips—all the fruity decorations there to impress fancy girls who trolled casinos and boardwalks for rich men and the same girls forty years later, now wives who had certain
expectations.
Morgan would toss it all out the window if they weren’t going to charge his credit card, and then remembered that Weinberg was paying for the room and considered whether he wouldn’t do just that. It would save him plenty of trouble scanning the room next time.

Jenny would have loved the room—or at least he thought so. It’s not like he was the interior decorator.

Once he was satisfied that the room wasn’t bugged, he opened his suitcase and took out his communicator, a tiny skin-colored earpiece that fit entirely into his ear canal, acting as microphone, earphone, and transmitter, all the while allowing him to hear perfectly out of his ear.

The room smelled of nothing with a hint of lavender, which he couldn’t stand. He was sure they’d change the scent if he asked— catering to the rich was all about meeting petty, absurd demands, and this was light in comparison. But he wasn’t going to be the guy who complained about the
scent of his room,
so he went back to the balcony instead and sat down at a wicker chair to take in the scenery. He took out his cell phone and put it to his ear, so that anyone who happened to look at him wouldn’t think it was strange that he was talking to himself.

“Tactical, come in,” he said. He had to repeat it a couple of times until he got a response.

“This is tactical,” came Bishop’s voice in his ear. “Receiving loud and clear, Cobra. What’s your status?”

“In the room, settled in, scanned for bugs,” he said. “Awaiting first contact from the target. What’s the word on your end?”

“We’re all set up here,” said Bishop. “How’s the room?” For this last part, Bishop dropped the stiff formality of tactical communications and took on a conversational tone.

“Ridiculously large and fancy,” Morgan said with a practically audible smirk.

“Lucky bastard. Meanwhile, I’m stuck sharing a bed with Diesel.”

“Sorry, Bishop, I didn’t know you had company.”

“Screw you, Cobra,” Bishop chuckled. “Next time, it’s your turn to run support, and I’ll get the fancy hotel room.”

“Keep dreaming,” said Morgan. “Cobra out.”

Morgan went to his bag to pull out his tablet computer to access the mission dossier. He poured himself a Perrier from the minibar—fourteen euros, on Weinberg’s dime—and sat on the balcony, going over the facts of the case and relevant photographs until the room phone rang.

He took the receiver off the hook.

“Hello.”

“Is this Mr. Morgan?” The voice on the other end carried a heavy German accent, and a tone that didn’t quite fit the posh surroundings.

“Mr. Weinberg?”

“This is Anse Fleischer. I am Mr. Weinberg’s personal valet. Mr. Weinberg would like to meet you by the pool at your earliest convenience. Let us say, an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

He hung up, then shed his traveling clothes—khaki pants and navy blue button-down. He walked into the bathroom, which also smelled of lavender, and ran the shower. The water poured from a sort of waterfall made of white marble, to match the rest of the bathroom. The cascade hit his back with nice, relaxing force, and he spent longer than usual under it, letting the pulsing streams massage his tense muscles. He dried off (big, white fluffy towels, because these people knew how to live) and put on a casual white button-down shirt, Bermuda shorts, and loafers. Not his outfit of choice, but he had to look the part, and the part was of a man of leisure.

He had some time before he had to meet Weinberg, which he spent discreetly scouting all the possible exit routes from the hotel, pretending to look at the facilities. It was the kind of information that he knew very well paid to have
before
you needed it. He then set up a few of his own motion-activated spy cameras in the room. It would catch any break-ins and transmit the video automatically to his phone—a system courtesy of Shepard.

“All right,” he told Bishop over the communicator as he slipped on his special aviator sunglasses. Their thick rims concealed a listening device and a tiny still camera, activated by a button near his ear. “I’m going in.”

“Good luck,” said Bishop.

Morgan walked downstairs and out into the pool area. It was built on a deck overlooking the ocean, which he had spotted from the balcony earlier. Women reclined on deck chairs, their varying levels of beauty telling him whether the money came from their husbands or fathers. Waiters carried colorful, fruity cocktails, and towel boys rushed to attend to guests coming out of the pool. Morgan spotted Weinberg sitting on a deck chair at a table under a large umbrella, shirtless in a speedo. Morgan knew he was fifty-six, but he didn’t look a day over forty—a result of a pampered lifestyle and never having a care in the world. He was pink and baby-faced, with a slight blond beard. He was not quite as lean as he used to be from pictures that Morgan saw, but he still had the body of a younger man, and the muscles of a swimmer. Sitting at the table with Weinberg, stiff and unrelaxed, was the man who Morgan took to be Anse Fleischer. Sitting down, he was still nearly a head taller than Weinberg, with thick broad shoulders under a casual light blue shirt, blond as well, with a face that might make a Neanderthal jealous, but only just. Had he been born some twenty years earlier, he might have made a better Terminator than Arnold.

Weinberg waved Morgan over.

“Mr. Weinberg,” Morgan said.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Weinberg had a distinct German accent, though Morgan could tell even from a few words that the man’s English was near perfect. “Please, sit down. Will you drink with me?” He motioned to a gin and tonic sitting on the table in front of him.

“I don’t drink.”

“Commendable, Mr. Morgan! Perhaps an Evian, or some fresh-made juice then?”

“I had a big lunch,” he said, sitting down.

“So serious,” he said, with a mock frown. “I did not know anyone could be so serious in Monte Carlo.” He waved his arms to indicate the beauty of their surroundings.

“I’m here to do business, not enjoy myself,” said Morgan.

“Look around you, Mr. Morgan! The sun, the beautiful women—or men, if that is your fancy. Is this the time or place to discuss business?”

“I thought that was the point of my coming here,” said Morgan.

“Relax, my friend. This is on me. Have some fun.”

“I like to keep business and pleasure separate.”

“And how!” said Weinberg. “But there is nothing truly separate, is there, Mr. Morgan? What business can be separated from pleasure, and what pleasure is there without
some
business involved, don’t you think?”

“I guess there are some of us who’d rather they didn’t mix,” said Morgan.

“Is that the talk of a master salesman, especially one who sells things of beauty and pleasure?” he asked. “I thought the secret to your business was that your client never believed himself to be a client, but rather a friend. I am a businessman myself, and the best business is done with a veneer of friendship.”

“And let me guess, your friendships are deep down all about business?” Morgan said, leaning back in his iron-wrought chair, legs casually crossed.

Weinberg contained his look of annoyance. “Perhaps you are in the wrong line of business, Mr. Morgan. You have the makings of a psychiatrist, I think.”

“I just think there are some things money can’t touch,” he said.

“An idealist, I see. Such a rare thing in a salesman. See, Mr. Morgan, it is my experience that, when you have billions at your disposal, you will be surprised at how little money cannot touch. How many people you can buy and sell.”

“Are you in the business of buying and selling people, Mr. Weinberg?” asked Morgan, with a pointed raising of his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t be if they weren’t so positively eager to be sold!” he said with his cackling laugh.

“And what about buying cars?” Morgan asked.

“I will pay asking price, Mr. Morgan, if only you will stop talking about business in this place! You will show me the car later, and we will close this deal. You have my word.” Morgan caught Weinberg’s eyes moving to a point behind him. “Now, please, relax. I do believe this is Ms. Harper coming our way.”

Morgan twisted in his chair and saw a woman who had just emerged out into the sun from the inside of the hotel. She wore large black sunglasses and a wide-brimmed beach hat which sat at an angle on her head. Her hair was done up under the hat, but her bangs and a few loose wisps on the nape of her neck showed that she had brownish-red hair. She was wearing a green beach dress which hung off her shoulders, showing a white bathing suit and her alabaster skin underneath. Her features were delicate, like that of a porcelain doll, but she walked with a haughty self-assurance that gave her something of a Jackie Onassis quality. As she entered the shade of the umbrella, she drew off her sunglasses, revealing bright cat-green eyes.

Morgan reached his hand as if to scratch his ear, and discreetly took a few pictures of the woman using the hidden camera in his glasses. Weinberg stood up to greet her, and Fleischer did as well.

“I say,” she said, giving Weinberg a kiss on each cheek, “this is rather nicer than where I’m lodged.” She spoke in a precise high-class English accent, voice soft as velvet, at the same time seductive and distant, announcing that she was above anything that anyone might have to offer her. Morgan could tell right away that she was a man-killer and had built herself to be the perfect predator in this kind of environment.

“Elizabeth, my dear,” said Weinberg. “Please meet Daniel Morgan.” He stood up to greet her.

“A pleasure,” she said as she kissed Morgan on the cheek, with just enough attention to kick Weinberg off his perch of most important man at the table while letting Morgan know that he could look, but never touch.

She stood by a chair and waited, until Anse pulled it for her and she sat.

It wasn’t enough to say that she dominated their little group. She changed the power dynamics at whim. Morgan decided that he liked her. More important, he needed to find out who she was.

She turned back to Weinberg. “Please, Gunther, Elizabeth is what they called me at St. Theresa’s, and I hardly need the memories of angry nuns wielding meter sticks. Do call me Lily.”

“Excuse me,” said Weinberg. “I am old-fashioned when it comes to formality. By all means, we shall call you Lily.”

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of the company of the handsome Mr. Morgan?” she asked, pulling a cigarette from her purse.

“Strictly business,” he said.

“Ah, a Yank,” she said with a wink. Weinberg held out a lighter, and she leaned in to ignite the tip of her cigarette. She sucked lightly so that the flame took. She then let the smoke waft through her lips before exhaling “Always so strictly business.”