Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (6 page)

Justin pondered on McClain’s words. The Taliban had hired foreign mercenaries to attack American troops in Afghanistan, drawing fighters from former and current warzones in the world. Somalia. Chechnya. Yemen. It was possible Justin and Nathan became targets of convenience.

“I still believe someone betrayed us and leaked the intel,” Justin said.

“I’m checking with CIA and MI6 about developments in northeast Iran. I’ll inform you right away once they have anything concrete.”

“Sounds good,” Justin said. “We’ll press Colonel Garryev for some answers.”

“You will not have time for that. I want you boys out of there ASAP.”

“We have seats on the first flight to Azerbaijan tomorrow morning at eight hundred. Our next stop is Frankfurt, then back to our Cairo station.”

McClain coughed, then paused for a few seconds. “There’s a change of plans, Justin.” His voice lost its evenness, turning edgy. “I’ve got some bad news.”

He told them about the Navy SEALs squad that had gone missing in southern Somalia earlier that morning after their Black Hawk helicopter had fallen into an ambush. Everyone aboard was considered dead or captured, although their bodies had not been recovered, and there was no other intelligence about the doomed operation.

Justin’s eyes darkened and his frown grew deep. He hoped he would not see the charred bodies of American elite troops dragged through the streets of Somalia, crowds of armed militants cheering and doing their macabre dance. Perhaps it was less gruesome than being beheaded alive for the pleasure of Jihad supporters.

He felt partly responsible for the fate of the SEALs. His team at the CIS Cairo Station—his headquarters when not in field operations—was responsible for assessing the intelligence leading to the operation.

“CIA wants an in-person briefing in the States. They want to share some extremely sensitive and highly classified intelligence. They say it’s about important security issues for both them and us,” McClain said.

“What do they want?” Justin asked. CIA never shared any of their intelligence if there was no prospect of them receiving something of greater importance in return.

“A copy of the defector’s files.”

Justin grinned. He had anticipated McClain’s reply. He knew his boss had given the CIA the gist of their operation, and CIA was eagerly waiting to interrogate the defector. Since this was no longer possible, the documents would be the next best thing.

“This is not going to be a finger-pointing session about the Somalia operation?” Justin asked. “I have no intention of becoming CIA’s scapegoat or allowing them to blame us for this incident.”

McClain replied in a calm voice, “No, it’s not like that. They have assured me. They don’t trust cables and phones any more, even the secure ones. That’s why I don’t know more about this intelligence they’re giving us. Since the Wikileaks scandal, whenever its’ possible, CIA prefers briefings in person.”

So they can say the meetings and the exchanges never took place,
Justin thought.

“The Americans lost eight men in that ambush,” McClain continued. “They’ve already talked to Joint Task Force Two. They just need the complete story.”

“
We don’t have
the complete story. You just told me we have no new intel about the ambush. We only know what the SEALs reported before they were shot down. CIA already has that intel.”

“True, but it’s for their own due diligence. Perhaps they want to confirm some of the intel we gave them about al-Shabaab leaders.”

“Our intel was accurate at the time of those reports, as confirmed by their own man on the ground.”

McClain sighed. “Great, so just tell the CIA that and wrap this up.” His voice had regained its initial sternness. His tone left no room for options.

“OK, when do they want to see me?”

“ASAP.”

True to their reputation, they want everything done yesterday.

“I’ll see if I can change flights. If everything works out, I could be at Langley as early as Wednesday morning. The afternoon would work better.”

“Great. I’ll let them know. After the meeting, I expect a briefing about the intelligence they’ll be giving you.”

If it is worth anything,
Justin thought, but held his tongue.

McClain said, “One last thing, Carrie’s meeting you in the States as well.”

“Carrie?” Justin arched his bushy eyebrows at the mentioning of his partner’s name. “Isn’t she still on leave?”

“She was. She called this morning from Grozny. She’s coming back, and I want her to attend the CIA’s briefing.”

Justin wanted to ask if Carrie had found her father’s grave, but knew better. Carrie would not confide in McClain such an important detail of her life. She barely knew McClain, who had taken his position less than four months ago. Carrie’s father, a colonel in the Canadian Army, had disappeared during a covert mission in the late eighties in the Soviet Union. She joined the Army in part to learn about his fate, but all her efforts had hit a dead end. Recently, she had come into possession of some classified information: a photograph that was supposed to show his grave, somewhere in northern Grozny, Chechnya.
If she hasn’t told me, she hasn’t told anyone.

“All right,” Justin said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I’ll brief Carrie right away. Take care, boys.”

“You too, sir,” Justin and Nathan spoke in almost a single voice.

“CIA needs you,” Nathan said with a smirk after Justin ended the call. He pointed his index finger at Justin, then gave him a wink.

“Yeah, they do. Like someone needs a pair of tongs to get their nuts out of the fire without burning their hands.”

Nathan grinned. “What’s this intel about?”

“Well, according to McClain it’s highly classified. I’d have to see it before believing it. CIA isn’t known for playing nice and sharing their toys with us.”

“But we’re giving them everything we’ve got from the Iranian defector.”

“That’s to trick us into believing this is a fair exchange, and we’re working together. We were going to give those reports to them anyway. Perhaps not so fast, but eventually they were going to get a copy. Anyway, let’s grab some dinner before finishing the cleanup. What’s left in the fridge?”

“A couple of pizza slices and some spaghetti.”

“It will do. We’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow before our flight. Let’s eat.”

Chapter Four

Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

September 21, 3:45 a.m. local time

Justin and Nathan waited until the moon hid behind a heavy curtain of clouds and slipped out of the apartment under the cover of darkness. They had been following the movements of their neighbors and the flow of traffic over the past few nights, before their infiltration into Iran. This was the best time to leave undetected, when the entire district fell into complete silence. The last drunken patrons of the nightclub at the end of the block had already stumbled back into their cars or their homes. And it was too early for morning shift workers to hit the streets.

Canada had no embassy or consular presence in Turkmenistan, and so the Embassy of Canada in Ankara, Turkey, provided services for Canadians in this country. Justin and Nathan did not need any assistance regarding their passports, since they had entered the country by using Russian passports. Justin was a freelance travel journalist, with two large camera bags around his shoulders to prove it. Nathan was his assistant and reporter. A Canadian diplomatic presence would have offered them a secure place to find weapons and other operational gear and to drop them off at the end of the mission.

Instead, they had to rely on Colonel Garryev to supply them with most of the tools of their trade. After the recent turn of events, Justin had decided to avoid any contacts with the Colonel. He wanted to leave behind no evidence that could hunt them in the future. They were going to dispose of their gear without any local help.

The Canadian agents had shed their military fatigues and other clothes they used in Iran. They were now sporting black dress pants, black turtleneck sweaters, and charcoal sport coats. The rain had stopped a couple of hours ago, leaving behind mud puddles and slippery sidewalks. The temperature was barely sixty-five degrees, almost perfect conditions to cover a lot of ground without breaking a sweat.

They reached their white Lada, one of the most common cars in the country. Colonel Garryev had chosen it as their discreet means of transportation, and they had parked it a few blocks away from their apartment complex. They threw their knapsacks in the trunk. Nathan drove to the north of the city. They had identified a few good spots in the wetlands and forests surrounding the Kurtlinskoe Reservoir, and the rain had made their job easier. They dismantled their carbines and pistols and scattered the pieces in the wooded areas, under bushes, and throughout the ponds dotting the landscape. They did the same with their clothes, binoculars, and all their gear, including their knapsacks.

It was about five-thirty when Justin and Nathan parked behind a small diner on Magtymguly Avenue by the Kopetdag Stadium, once the home of Kopetdag Ashgabat Football Club. It was one of the few places open this early in the morning. The diner was dimly lit. The air inside was warm because of the kitchen ovens and thick with the smell of smoke and grease. The crowd of customers was thin, mostly rugged-looking men, their eyes puffy from lack of sleep, too much vodka the previous night, or both. One or two turned their heads to check the newcomers. Justin gave them a barely noticeable nod and slid into a booth at the end of the diner, overlooking both entrances. Nathan sat on the other side of the table, his eyes covering the little door leading to the kitchen.

“What are you getting?” Nathan asked in Russian.

“A big omelet with pretty much everything they have. I’m starving. And a large cup of coffee.”

“Same for me.”

They placed their order with the waitress, a thin brunette with a pale face and gray eyes. A minute later, she returned with their coffees. Justin brought his cup to his nose and enjoyed the strong aroma. He took a small sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction.

“It’s good, eh?” Nathan said, adding a spoon of sugar to his cup.

“Shhhhh, don’t wreck it.” Justin took another sip of the hot liquid and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, a battered Nissan Pathfinder had stopped in front of the diner, waiting for the red traffic light to change. It took Justin a second to realize he was staring at Suleyman, one of the drug runners who had taken them to Iran, in the driver’s seat. The man they had been trying to reach for most of last evening was outside the diner. His heart began racing.

“Nathan,” Justin shouted, dropping his cup to the table. “Our driver, Suleyman, he’s right outside the . . .”

The Nissan began to move and round the curb. Justin jumped off his seat. He flew past Nathan, almost ran over the waitress, and darted through the door.

The Nissan was about thirty yards away, changing lanes. Justin broke into a sprint on the sidewalk, staying in Suleyman’s blind spot. He wished he had his pistol with him, although a travel journalist would have difficulties explaining firing shots at a moving target in the middle of city. He took a shortcut through a back alley, trying to keep up with the Nissan.

Thankfully, Suleyman had not seen him yet and was not driving at a high speed. Justin spotted the Nissan across the street, just as it disappeared behind a large park. Justin sped up, cutting through the empty park, jumping over benches, bushes, and garbage cans, barely missing a couple of homeless people sleeping on the grass. He looked up and saw the lights of an intersection two blocks ahead change from amber to red. His eyes searched for his target, and he found the Nissan among a dozen or so vehicles that were slowing down.

Justin zigzagged between the stopped vehicles. Two cars away from the Nissan, Suleyman must have noticed him because his vehicle crashed into a small Lada. He seemed to be pushing it out of his way for a few seconds before rushing at Justin in reserve. Justin jumped out of the way, as the Nissan came rolling into the hood of a van behind him.

Suleyman opened the door on his side of the Nissan, producing a pistol. He pointed it toward Justin, who disappeared behind the Lada. Two shots rang out. Justin slid toward the front of the small car. The third bullet shattered one of the back windows. The woman driving the Lada crawled out of her seat. Justin tried to reassure her, but two more bullets thumped against the car. He edged to the front.

“Come out of there,” Suleyman shouted.

Justin looked through the windshield and saw Suleyman standing by the Lada’s back tire. He was peering through the windows.

The woman screamed something in a language Justin did not understand, probably Turkmen. Suleyman groaned and responded with another shot. The woman stood up slowly, shaking and rambling uncontrollably. Suleyman trained his pistol on her. The traffic light changed and a few cars drove away. Loud horns came from the other vehicles blocked by the Nissan and the Lada. Suleyman turned and threatened those drivers with his pistol.

Justin seized the moment and charged forward, tackling Suleyman like an offensive lineman. His left shoulder speared Suleyman at his side, throwing him to the ground, almost knocking the air out of him. The pistol flew out of his hand. Suleyman tried to reach it, but Justin pinned his arm down with a strong grasp.

“Stop it!” Justin shouted. “Just want to ask you some questions.”

Nathan appeared behind the Nissan. Justin motioned for him to pick up the pistol.

Suleyman kept struggling. Justin lifted him by the collar of his leather jacket while dodging his blows and pushed him against the Lada. Suleyman threw his left fist, aiming for Justin’s jaw. At the last moment, Justin jerked his head back. Suleyman’s fist missed his face by less than an inch.

Justin held his grip on the man’s collar and raised his own fist. Then his eyes caught sight of a little boy inside the van stuck behind the Lada. The boy could have not been older than five years. His face was frozen, his eyes observing the fight taking place in front of him. Justin relaxed his hand and grabbed the back of Suleyman’s jacket while smiling at the little boy.