One Child (7 page)

Chapter

11

Paris, France

There was no reason for Trey Miller to stay in New York. Paris and Moscow held the key to bringing the Russian down a few notches.

He walked through Charles de Gaulle and hailed a cab outside the airport's main doors. He gave the driver the address for Hotel de Seine in St-Germain-des-Pres, then settled back as Paris flashed past his window. He enjoyed Paris more than any city in the world. The raw beauty of the buildings, the passion of its people, the elegance of the museums and monuments. And most importantly, men and women who operated in the shady world of covert ops. The ghosts who, like him, could appear or disappear at will.

He reset his watch to local time. Ten-eighteen on August 1
st
. Mid-morning was the best time to arrive to avoid the usual congestion on the roads, but it was Sunday and the volume was light. Traffic was flowing on the Boulevard Peripherique and the signs giving estimated times to off-ramps were dark. The Eiffel Tower poked through the maze of buildings intermittently, and overhead the summer sun warmed the city as it had done for countless centuries. A handful of clouds, white puffballs against a striking blue background, floated lazily on the breeze.

What a wonderful day for a little treachery
, he thought.

The cab reached the hotel and he paid the driver and wheeled his lone piece of luggage into the lobby. Like many upscale Paris boutique hotels, it was small but filled with quiet elegance. The main reception desk was paneled wood with a wall mural depicting a jungle scene on the back wall. Miller had always thought that piece of the hotel to be out of sync and wondered why someone didn't notice and change it. He approached the desk, which was attended by a middle-aged man in a freshly pressed suit.

"Reservation for Ambrose. I made it on the Internet yesterday afternoon," he said in fluent French. He placed an American passport with his picture and the name Roger Ambrose on the marble counter. Anonymity started with never letting anyone know who or where you were. He dropped a Platinum VISA card next to the false passport. Same name. Deception worked best when all the details were taken care of.

The clerk smiled. "Yes, it's here. Welcome back, Mr. Ambrose. We've upgraded your room to a suite. Our thanks for staying with us on so many occasions."

"My pleasure," Miller said. "I like your hotel."

What he really liked was the we-could-care-less-who-you-are attitude. Pay the exorbitant rates, tip well and the staff left you alone. He found his room, opened the door and threw his suitcase onto the bed. The hotel provided free wi-fi and he switched on his computer and Googled
Details Matter
. The website for U2's security provider didn't even make the first page of Google. It was number thirteen. That bothered him more than if it had been number one. Successful companies that preferred to remain in the background were the ones that built their reputations on quality. Clients came looking for them, not the other way around. And if
Details Matter
was handling the security for U2 while on tour, they were guaranteed to be good at their job.

It took a few minutes of searching to discover the person behind the company.
Julie
Lindstrom. He read her bio - sketchy - but enough information to tell him that she was American and at some point had been involved with either the CIA or the FBI. She didn't have to come out and say it, he could tell. The more he read, the more he was convinced she was ex-FBI. Warning bells started going off. Lindstrom was a woman who had excelled in the male-dominated world of high-level security. She was not a person to dismiss lightly. He sent a quick e-mail to
Fleming
before packing up the computer.

Assembling team. P today. M tomorrow. Worried about Lindstrom.

The curtains were open and he checked the view. Across the street was a white stone building, conspicuous in its cleanliness, and below him was Rue de Seine, one of the more famous arteries in the Left Bank. Miller used the hotel phone to call a local number. A woman answered and he set a meeting in ninety minutes at the city's oldest church, a few blocks away. He showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a crisp dress shirt that he left untucked. He slipped a set of drawings into a thin leather briefcase, then wandered out into the street and headed for the Cafe des Deux Magots, a favorite hangout of Picasso and Rimbaud. A double espresso and a quick look through the daily newspaper revitalized him and he set out through the heavy pedestrian traffic at a brisk pace for St-Germain-des-Pres.

Trey loved the church. It was a Romanesque marvel, rising harshly over the brasseries and cafes that littered the square and the web of narrow streets that spun off in all directions. It had stood since the 11
th
century, destroyed and rebuilt more times than the history books could record. He reached the base of the buttresses that supported the bell tower and opened the door. Inside, the church was dimly lit and quiet, a world apart from the busy street scene. The Sunday service was over and only a handful of stragglers remained, lighting candles and sitting silently in the empty pews. Trey recognized her hair from the back and made his way up the left-side aisle to where she sat, facing the chancel.

"You're early," he whispered, sitting next to her.

"A church on Sunday morning," she answered. "Really inconspicuous. Brilliant place to meet." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. Maelle Robichaud was mid-thirties and kept herself well toned. Her deep-brown shoulder-length hair matched her eyes, and her skin was unblemished and tanned. Her face was lean and nicely proportioned, but not pretty. There was a tinge of hardness to her eyes and her movements that made most men wary.

"I forgot it was Sunday," he said easily. He shrugged. "Whoops."

"It's over a year since the last time we met," she said. "How have you been?"

"Very well. Better than that, actually. Fantastic."

Maelle raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, or are you simply trying to impress me?"

"Serious. But impressing you is probably a good idea." He let his eyes roam over her body. "You want to have sex?"

She shook her head. "Well, it's nice to see that you haven't changed." He was the same Trey Miller who spent two decades globe-trotting on a CIA expense account.

"See, stability counts," he said. "What about my question?"

She hesitated, then said, "Maybe. If you're a good boy. And if I like whatever job you have on the go."

He grinned. "I think you'll like this one." He pulled the drawings out of his briefcase and handed one set to her. "U2 is playing Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow on August 25
th
."

Maelle set the papers on her lap, out of view, and unfolded them. They were rudimentary plans of the stadium. "I like U2, but what's the gig? I'm sure your client isn't paying us to watch the concert."

"He wants us to derail it. Take it apart, piece by piece."

"Why?"

"The Russian who is promoting the concert pissed off our client," Trey said. "The idea here is to discredit him. The nice thing is, nobody gets hurt."

"What's the plan?" she asked.

"We take out the infrastructure. My first inclination is that we key in on the electricity. Take down the power grid. No electricity, no concert. We make it look like someone dropped the ball. But we need to be careful. If we sabotage things so the investigators can find evidence, then the finger gets pointed elsewhere and we've failed. But if everything crashes because they overloaded the circuits, then the promoter takes the heat for not being prepared."

"Interesting," she said. "Not the kind of thing that gets dropped in your lap every day."

"No, it's different. Planning is important, but execution is crucial. We have to disguise whatever we do so well that it never gets uncovered."

"Do you still speak Russian?" she asked.

"A bit, but it's rusty. Certainly not good enough to get us through this."

She shrugged her shoulders and stuck her head forward a bit. "So..."

"So we'll have to pick up a couple of Russians to help us."

"Who?"

"Alexi Androv and Petr Besovich."

She shook her head, sending her hair flying back and forth. "I don't like Besovich. I worked with him in Prague once and we didn't see eye to eye on things. He's a cowboy and caused everyone grief."

"He's a bit of a hothead," Trey agreed. "But he's also the best guy I know at tracking electrical systems and finding the right places to cut the power."

"If he's in, then I'm out," she snapped. "Find someone else."

"No," Trey replied evenly. "Besovich is the man I want and the fuse is short on this one. Twenty-five days, including today. We need more detailed plans of the stadium so we can figure out how to crash the systems. And we have to get it done in a little over three weeks. There isn't time to find a substitute for Besovich."

"He talks too much, Trey," she said. "A few vodkas and he'll give it up. The Russian newspapers will know what we're up to."

"One word and he's out," Trey said. He waited a few seconds for it to sink in. "One word to someone outside the group and he's out. You okay with that?"

Maelle mulled it over for the better part of a minute. "One word," she said.

"And he's gone."

She finally nodded. "Okay, but you'd better keep your dog on a tight leash. Especially once the job is done."

"So you're in?" he asked.

"What's the pay? I need to know how much I'm getting paid before I say yes."

"Eighty thousand US, which works out to about thirty-two hundred a day. And most of those days are easy. Reading blueprints and cracking computer access codes - figuring out how to do this."

"I'm worried about the days that aren't easy," she said, then nodded. "Okay, I'm in."

"So you like the job."

She smiled. "I do. Moscow during the summer. And nobody gets hurt."

"So what about my question?" Trey asked.

"You still have to be a good boy." She tucked the drawings in her bag and stood up. "I'll study these. When are we leaving for Moscow?"

"Two days. I'll call you on your cell phone."

"I'll clear my calendar." She stepped over him and shuffled between the pews to the nearest aisle. "Good seeing you, Trey."

He watched her leave the church. Memories flooded back from the previous jobs they had worked together, he with the agency and she on loan from Interpol. Maelle Robichaud was brilliant at manipulating computer systems and getting them to do exactly what she wanted. Some people called what she did hacking, she called it a learned skill. Maelle was about ten years his junior in age, but that was unimportant. What mattered was the depth of her skill set. She was the best and he had her. Getting the Russians on board would be easy. All it took was a handful of money and the promise that what they were doing was highly illegal.

The wheels were in motion. The gig was underway.

Chapter

12

Kabul, Afghanistan

Russell
looked up from his newspaper and mint tea. The noonday sun was directly overhead and cooking Kabul under its blistering rays. An employee of the Gandamack Lodge was standing on the grass in front of him. He held an envelope in his left hand.

"This just arrived, Mr. Matthews," the man said in halting English.

"Thank you,"
Russell
said. He dug into his shirt pocket and handed over a tattered ten Afghani note. The messenger inclined his head in a polite nod and returned to the hotel.

Russell
took the envelope and ripped it open. It was the communique he had been waiting for. His documents ensuring safe passage from Kabul to Kandahar. At least, as safe as possible in a country constantly under attack. He memorized the itinerary, folded the envelope in half and tucked it into his back pocket. Two days in Kabul was enough. He was ready to join the troops at their Forward Operating Base in the southern province. He finished his tea, signed the chit and left a generous tip for his waiter.

He took one last look at the quiet garden that had been his refuge from the onslaught of Kabul's traffic and street boys for the past forty-eight hours. The tract of worn grass tucked behind the lodge was so peaceful. If only the rest of the city, the country for that matter, could be like this tiny enclave. Relaxing. Quiet. Safe. These were expected things in so many places, yet so elusive in Afghanistan.

His itinerary was straightforward, but he knew that even simple things in countries like Somalia or Afghanistan could become complicated very quickly. A driver was to pick him up in thirty minutes at the hotel and take him to Kabul's main airport. A local agency had arranged for him to join a plane flying supplies for a Non-Government Organization to Kandahar. It left at two o'clock. The flight was less than two hours, which meant it would still be light when he arrived. Someone from the brigade was scheduled to pick him up at the airport and take him to the Forward Operating Base. If everything went as scheduled, he would be inside the wire and chatting with the soldiers of the 2
nd
Infantry Division before dark.

If everything went as it should.

"Sure, and the pigs are fueled and ready to fly,"
Russell
mumbled to himself.

He packed the few items he had taken out of his suitcase, looked over his camera gear and computer, then headed for the front desk. Checking out took fifteen minutes - problems with translating between Dari and English and getting the credit card to work in the machine - and by the time
Russell
arrived at the car, his driver had been waiting long enough that he was sleeping. The ride to the airport was complete chaos. Traffic laws simply did not exist in Kabul. It was every man for himself and the timid were quickly overtaken and forced onto roads they had no intention of taking. Air quality was poor - the thick brown pollution choked even the heartiest Afghans.

Street boys swarmed the car at every intersection with offers of freshly filled balloons on strings. Some of them waved smoking cans, promising that for a small fee they could ward off the evil spirits in the car. With sixty thousand of them working the inner city, there was hardly a block that passed without one of the children banging on the door panels.

"Are they orphans?"
Russell
asked the driver.

He shook his head. "No, most of them have a mother or a father. The lucky ones have both." His English was heavily accented but understandable. "Their parents are very poor, and too sick or injured to hold a job. So the children work the streets. It's very bad for them. They get no education and end up working for nothing all their lives. Very sad."

Russell
nodded. He understood sadness. Inevitably, it permeated the family unit, the one piece of closely-knit fabric that tied war-ravaged countries together. It challenged pride and wiped out ambition. It haunted children's dreams and destroyed hope. Sadness was something
Russell
Matthews had seen many times. He never became accustomed to it. He never wanted to.

"What's going on?"
Russell
asked as the car slowed almost to a stop. Directly ahead was a series of concrete barriers spanning the road.

"This is Wazir Akbar Khan. There are many embassies here. Security is very strict."

Outside the car soldiers were scanning the occupants as vehicles drove slowly through the twisting maze of concrete slabs. They were placed to impede traffic flow so any speed above five miles per hour was impossible. One of the soldiers, a Union Jack on his shoulder and an automatic weapon tight to his chest, nodded to him as they passed. No paperwork, no passport, just off-blond hair, blue eyes and white skin and you merited a nod. It should have made
Russell
feel better. It did exactly the opposite.

The driver navigated the Mercedes through the barriers and resumed a reasonable speed.
Russell
watched Bibi Mahru Hill slide past on his left, a favorite district of Kabul for expats and the site of the city's only Olympic-size swimming pool. He'd heard stories from more than one journalist about how the mujahedeen used the diving board for daily executions during the war.

They reached the airport and the driver pulled into Zone A, the most secure of the three zones and the one reserved for VIPs and foreigners with status. Security forces surrounded the car, guns ready. Always guns.
Russell
's driver leaned back and told him that they were the elite guard of Afghan National Police, well trained and trustworthy. And that he had arranged for
Russell
to enter through the most prestigious zone. The initial security was not as stringent and coming in through Zone A meant fewer headaches once inside the terminal.

Russell
shouldered his bag and handed the driver a generous tip. "Good work," he said, looking at the chaos in the other two zones where the security lines were massive and the guards much more difficult to get by without having your suitcase and body searched. "You did well."

His driver pocketed the tip. "Someone from the NGO will meet you in the terminal. Have a good flight."

Inside,
Russell
spied a man in western dress holding a sign with his last name and angled over to him. The man introduced himself, then helped the journalist through the secondary security checkpoint and to the plane. It was an older model DC-9 that had been partially converted to handle supplies, but still had about twenty seats near the front of the craft. The pilot checked his ID and pointed to the cloth-covered seats.

"Sit anywhere you want," he said. "No in-flight service here, but we'll get you to Kandahar on time. Sort of. That's more than most of the commercial airlines that fly out of Kabul can say."

"Thanks."

Russell
picked a window seat and settled in. The plane pushed back at twenty after two and was airborne by two-thirty. Below him, Afghanistan spread out like a giant brown carpet, stained with tinges of green and blue. Few main roads crisscrossed the massive steppes directly below the plane, and to the northwest the Hindu Kush mountain range rose harshly on the distant horizon. The paths leading through the mountains, where there were any, were too narrow to be seen from the air. The rugged and unforgiving landscape was part of the reason the ISAF troops were still hunting the Taliban. Rooting out the black-turbaned insurgents was a problem that wasn't going away soon. Understanding the other factors, aside from the geography, was why he was in the country.

The topography changed as they neared Kandahar. On the western edge of the city were the fertile farmlands of Helmand province, the world's number one source of opium. The Arghand River snaked its way through Helmand into Kandahar province, bringing vibrant green with it. Groves of olive and date trees clung to the riverbanks and fields of grapes and pomegranates spread back from the life-sustaining water. Villages came into view as the pilot decreased his altitude, the mud and brick buildings melding into the dusty brown soil. Horse and ox-drawn carts traveled slowly on the bumpy, unpaved roads. Men and women, many burdened with firewood and food, shared the roads with the rudimentary vehicles. A convoy of ISAF tanks rumbled toward Helmand, small clouds of dust rising from their tracks. The plane banked sharply to the left and dropped fast as it approached the runway. The tires touched and the plane bounced, then settled onto the asphalt.

Kandahar.

Russell
sucked in a deep breath. Five days had taken him from the safety of Boston to one of the most dangerous places on earth. And simply being in the city wasn't enough. He was going to be embedded with the soldiers on the front line. As vulnerable as any of them. Perhaps more so. At least they had guns. All he had was a camera. A wave of nausea washed over him - the same one that hit him every time he landed in a war zone. Tina's face materialized for a second in the dust swirling about the plane, then dissipated into a random jumble of whipped-up sand. He wondered if he would ever see her again. The thought hit him hard. It had never occurred before.

They taxied to a position close to the terminal and the pilot cut the engines and opened the cockpit door. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Russell
nodded. "Sure." He grabbed his bag and exited the plane. The heat hit him at the door. Kabul was hot and the air quality poor, but the bone-dry superheated air of Kandahar scorched his lungs and left him gasping for breath. He took a few breaths and started down the thin metal staircase. A man in a military uniform standing near the terminal caught his eye. He was focused on the plane, and on the man exiting.
Russell
walked toward him. At ten meters, the man raised his hand and gave the approaching reporter a small wave.

"
Russell
Matthews?" he asked.

"Yes." He reached the man and they shook hands.

"I'm Darcy Plotkin. 5
th
Stryker Brigade."

"Thanks for coming in from the base. I appreciate the ride. It'll be good to get out with the troops."

"Sorry, sir, I can only take you to a hotel tonight. It might be a day or two before you get to the Forward Operating Base."

"What's up?"
Russell
asked.

"I really can't say," Plotkin said, taking
Russell
's bag and shouldering it. They started walking. "Security problems on the road between Kandahar and Spin Buldak. It might not be safe to try today."

"How are things in Kandahar?"

"Stable right now. The Taliban are mostly in the hills, but they come into the city to keep an eye on us."

"That's always a problem,"
Russell
agreed. Foreign soldiers were easy to identify, making them targets. The insurgents, in Somalia, Iraq or Afghanistan, looked like the locals. You never knew who the bad guys were until they started shooting at you.

"This way, sir. I have a vehicle."

Russell
fell in beside Plotkin.
Almost made it
, he thought. The pigs almost got off the ground - but not quite.