The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (12 page)

22

H
aider tepidly picked at his Greek salad, the acid in his stomach stanching his appetite. In fact, the nagging fear that was producing the acid was overwhelming any joy from the rest of his senses.

Eating dinner at the storied Old Tavern in the Plaka of Athens, he was seated on the side of the Acropolis, in the shadow of the Parthenon, a cool evening breeze blowing across the open deck. He ignored it all, his mind having worried a tendril of dread until it had become a rope of fear.

Across from him sat Nassir and Khalid Mansoor, the “brothers” of Ahmed. In truth, they were all bastard children caught between fathers who refused to claim them and a society where the tribe’s name meant all. They too showed little interest in the meal. They too held the fear, because Ahmed was as real a brother as blood.

Nassir hung up his cell phone and shook his head, the fourth time he had done so in as many hours. “Still no answer. I think it’s time to call your father.”

Ahmed had arrived in Key West two days ago. Haider had received one jubilant email praising the meeting on Grand Cayman, then nothing. Repeated attempts at contact had failed, and Haider had eventually been forced to release the crew to continue on to Miami, where the yacht was berthed.

Now he was concerned by the void in communication. All three at
the table were feeling the angst, but unlike Nassir or Khalid, Haider’s worry came from the potential backlash from his father. The elder al-Attiya had made it plain that sending Ahmed to the Caymans was a recipe for failure, and it looked as if he’d be proven right. At least in his father’s eyes. Haider was convinced that Ahmed was more than likely doing nothing more than partying in the debauchery of Key West, but that alone would garner severe sanctions from his father. Especially since he’d used an official yacht from the emir to do so.

Haider said, “I’m not sure I should call. I mean, what can my father do? Ahmed will turn up. He’s done this before. Remember Germany?”

Khalid said, “No, no, this is different. He’s never been out of contact for this long. Yes, he’s gone out on his own, but never without contact. Call him.”

Haider said, “We have our mission here, in the next thirty minutes. We can’t worry about Ahmed right now.”

Haider saw the anger grow, and felt a new anxiety. Haider would never have feared Khalid before, but he’d seen his actions in Afghanistan. Seen his childhood friend develop a taste for violence. And a talent for it.

Hidden underneath Khalid’s trimmed beard and manicured nails was an unbridled fury looking for release. Like Haider, all three of the “brothers” were Qatari citizens, but unlike Haider, they were outcasts. As such, they had been raised in the flowing wealth that the oil reserves of Qatar provided, but without the shield of a tribe or the honor of a name. Because of it, instead of taking the blessings provided by the coincidence of his birth, Khalid felt insulted. Cheated. Continually blaming others for his perceived misfortunes.

He’d found an outlet in a mixed martial arts dojo in Doha, one frequented by expatriates from the West, where he’d learned to fight hand-to-hand. And learned to hate. Whether it was directed at the Westerners or himself, Haider was unsure.

Khalid had gotten so good that Haider had begun to fear his outbursts of anger. And that was
before
they’d gone to Afghanistan. Before he’d seen what Khalid could do with a gun. And a knife.

Haider said, “Okay, okay, I’ll call. Just don’t make any noise. He thinks I’m meeting Nikos by myself. Don’t let him know otherwise.”

Khalid smirked and said, “Still afraid of your father.”

Haider scowled and dialed his phone, thinking,
At least I have one
.

He looked away from Khalid as the international number went through its dings and whistles, then the call was answered without fanfare by his father, his caller identification giving Haider away.

“Tell me there isn’t some problem. Tell me you are in Athens, conducting business and not calling me about the police in Key West.”

Confused, Haider said, “Police? What about them?”

“Your idiot friend is dead. I just found out an hour ago. The consulate called the QIA, looking for answers.”

Speechless, Haider said nothing. His father continued. “Luckily, he was not an official employee, but I still had to answer why he was there. What he was doing on a QIA yacht. I need the report he sent you about the Brazil initiative. And
you
need to prepare to explain yourself when you return.”

Haider found his voice, surreptitiously glancing at Khalid. “How? What happened?”

“No idea. The American police are looking into it. Apparently, he was murdered. Killed in a botched robbery in that land of sin. Nothing good comes of walking with the infidel. You should have known that to begin with.”

Haider was staggered by the news, but fought to keep his face neutral. The last thing he needed was Khalid to find out what had happened to his brother minutes before Nikos arrived for payment. Haider’s father continued as if he’d just talked about missing dinner, saying, “You have the identification papers, yes? You have paid for the travel to Afghanistan?”

Caught off guard, still thinking about Ahmed, Haider said, “Yes . . . well, I’m meeting Nikos in a few minutes.”

“But you have seen the passport? You have created the credit accounts?”

Haider snapped out of his trance and, with a little pique in his voice, said, “Yes, yes. The passport, credit cards, all of that is in the safe-deposit box with the others. I’ve created the bank accounts and wired the money through QIA accounts for activities here in Greece. It’s done.”

“Watch your tone. Are you sure nobody can trace it?”

Haider immediately became more subdued, but hated his father for not trusting him. “Yes. There are cutouts, and the monetary amounts are so small nobody will look. The only link is the database in the safe-deposit box with the other identification papers. Just like we did before, when I went to Afghanistan.”

“Get rid of the link.”

“Father, I can’t. If I destroy the records, I can’t re-create the system in the future. I can’t possibly remember all of the cutouts and bank accounts on my own.”

His father said, “We can talk about that later. For now, you need to get the identification to Crete. This time, I
want
you to use one of our boats in the Athens harbor. I don’t want you on any flight manifests.”

“Crete? But I don’t even know where or when the talks are going to occur.”

“Our man is coming to Crete tomorrow night, hiding as a refugee on a boat from Libya. He’ll break free once he’s on Greek soil. You meet him there and give him the identification and travel documents. Get him to Afghanistan with papers.”

“I can’t go there tomorrow. I’m meeting the United States secretary of state. He called me, setting up a meeting tomorrow night. Something urgent. I think it’s the peace talks.”

Haider heard nothing for a moment, then, “What about your idiot friends? Are they in Greece with you?”

Haider thought about lying but decided against it. “Yes. I can send Nassir.”

Nassir looked up, and Haider held a finger in the air, saying, “He can do it.”

“Okay. I’ll send you the instructions. Make sure he doesn’t screw it up like your other friend. I don’t mind if he kills himself, but only after the meeting.”

Haider started to respond, then realized his father had hung up.

Khalid said, “Well, any news about Ahmed?”

Haider shook his head, hoping Khalid couldn’t see through the lie, knowing he would break down and do something potentially insane. He was caught between the fear of failing his father and Khalid’s actions, which would most certainly cause that failure. “No, but there’s other news. Our contact from the Islamic State is arriving in Crete tomorrow night. We need to pass him his travel documents there.”

Khalid said, “Who is this man? Why are we helping him? Keeping it secret is unlike you. This never happened in Afghanistan.”

Haider said, “I’m sorry, but my father insisted. I’ll tell you soon, but not now. Not until I’ve met Secretary Billings.”

Khalid snorted, and Nassir said, “Have the man come here.”

Haider drew himself up and said, “He’s going to Crete on a refugee boat, acting as one of them. He can’t redirect the boat. It’s done.” He pulled out a key from his pocket and said, “Nassir, I need you to get the documents, then go to the capital, Heraklion. I’ll send you the specifics over email when I get them.”

“How am I going to get to Crete?”

Haider smiled. “My father has a yacht lined up. It’s an overnight trip to Heraklion. You should enjoy it.”

Nassir smiled, until Khalid said, “Like Ahmed?”

Haider started to respond, then thought better of it. He said, “Go.”

He watched Nassir disappear, passing by another man Haider recognized. It was Nikos Andreas, a black-market thug working with one of the Greek crime families in Athens, and was the man who’d provided the forged documents.

Haider waved, then stood up and stuck out his hand, saying, “Nikos, how are you?”

Nikos sat down, ignoring the gesture. “I’m not sure. You have the money?”

Haider withdrew his hand and followed suit. He held out another key and said, “Same box. Same bank. All of the money you asked for.”

Nikos took the key, looking it over as if for something hidden, and said, “You told me the identification was for refugees. For people fleeing the chaos in Libya and Syria. Is this still true?”

Haider felt a bead of sweat on his neck, cool in the night air. “Yes, of course.”

Nikos smiled and said, “Then why is there an American watching this meeting?”

23

D
own the slope of the sprawling tavern, at a table tucked behind a tree, Guy George picked at his own meal, going from elation to confusion upon the arrival of the fourth man. Up the hill above him, among tourists eating their mussels and musing about the Acropolis, had sat the final three faces on his target package, all together. Absolute proof he was correct about the conspiracy of his brother’s death, and justification for the killing he’d done in Key West.

He’d learned the location of just one face from the target package—Haider al-Attiya—and had to apply significant pressure to the man in the Key West restroom to get it. It hadn’t been easy, and he hated himself for the action, both because of what he’d done and the fact that a small part of him enjoyed it.

He’d seen enough horrific debasement of humanity in the search for “truth” during combat to know what he’d done had the chance of being nothing but sadistic satisfaction, the man telling him whatever he thought would stop the pain.

The carnage he’d inflicted still ripped through his psyche, a permanent scar. He wasn’t a pipe-swinger like the men in foreign countries he’d seen use the techniques. Once, now long past, he’d been the soldier who broke up such things. Prevented his cause from being tainted with the very offal the enemy used.

Now he was that enemy.

When the man’s essence had fled his carcass, a part of Guy’s mind knew he’d crossed over, stepping past an invisible line that separated the righteous from the despicable. He’d shoved that part to the rear, listening to his brother’s Pandora station and telling himself he was in the right. But deep down not believing it.

Seeing the men at the table above him brought vindication. A half step to redemption. He’d considered walking away right then, taking his digital photos and voice recordings with him. He could provide that to the Taskforce and turn them loose, but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d have to admit to killing the man in Key West, and that, without sanction, was murder. Regardless, he was sure the Taskforce would not respond. Policy trumped blood. He’d already witnessed that, and he would never be forgiven. He was, to use a phrase, a dead man walking, and he was comfortable with the thought. His brother deserved what he could do, and his sacrifice would be worth it.

But not before he killed the three at the table.

He’d watched one of the men leave, then checked the level of his homemade audio-capture device, using an Android app and a directional microphone plugged into the micro USB port of his phone, and saw that the noise pickup wasn’t nearly as strong as he’d wanted. When he’d returned his eyes to the table, he saw the fourth man arrive. A man he knew as Nikos.

Which was significant trouble.

In Key West, Guy had gleaned the one anchor point he needed—the Athenaeum InterContinental Hotel in Athens—and had immediately flown to Greece, successfully testing his new identity and credit cards. Before beginning surveillance on the hotel, he needed two things: technical equipment and weapons.

The tech stuff he’d managed to build off-the-shelf from a trip to a hobby store, a security boutique, and an electronics shop. It wasn’t Taskforce sleek, but he’d managed to develop a crude beacon, surreptitious camera, a beam-focused digital recorder, and various cell
phone exploit tools. None of the devices was as powerful or compact as the state of the art he could have drawn from the Taskforce, but they’d get the job done, as the commercial sector grew ever closer to the surveillance world that was once an elite domain of governments.

The weapons, on the other hand, were a whole different kettle of fish. No way could he buy guns on the open market. He’d had to turn to a different source, and risk exposure by doing so.

He’d called a CIA case officer he knew was working in Greece. She was an old girlfriend of his roommate, Decoy, and she’d kept in touch with him after Decoy’s death, calling him for dinner whenever they were both in DC. She still didn’t know whom he worked for, only that it was beyond her classification level, but in her world, she knew better than to ask. What really mattered was that she was now posted to the US Embassy in Athens. And she trusted him, something he intended to leverage.

As much as the congressional intelligence committees wanted the CIA to deal solely with upstanding individuals, the work of intelligence necessitated stepping into the cesspool of humanity from time to time, and while the portfolio of the Athens station would include terrorism, it was focused more intently on the internal struggles of Greece. The euro crisis, political strife, and yes, organized crime.

They’d had lunch, he hinting he was operational and she beating around the bush about her own work. Eventually, he’d asked the favor, and using contacts she had, believing Guy was doing good for the United States, she’d set up a meeting with Nikos later that first night.

After a myriad of security precautions, both on his part and Nikos’s, he’d paid hard cash for a beat-up 6P9 pistol—a Russian weapon based on the Makarov, with an integral suppressor that could be broken down for travel—and a box of 9x18 ammunition. It would be enough to get him through the mission, but he wasn’t sure about the function of either, the weapon old and worn, the bluing rubbed clean in several spots, and the cardboard box of ammunition looking
as if it had been moved from location to location for years without use.

After the transfer, they’d conducted their security dance and had parted ways, and he’d never expected to see Nikos again. But now he was here, meeting Guy’s targets. Which, from what he’d seen at last night’s meeting, meant Nikos had put the entire restaurant under surveillance at least an hour before. There was no way he didn’t know Guy was here. The only question was whether he thought Guy was a danger.

Guy knew the answer to that. Coincidence was a luxury neither believed in. If the roles were reversed, Guy would assume he was a threat, and would have actively prepared to neutralize that threat.

The biggest concern now was remaining anonymous from the other two men at the table. Guy had no idea why Nikos had arrived, and really didn’t care. Nikos didn’t know his name, but he did know what Guy looked like.

Before Nikos could point him out or do something else to expose him, he rose, shoving his equipment into a fanny pack, and throwing way more euros on the table than necessary. He slipped to the left, getting behind a tree and surveying quickly, regretting not bringing the pistol with him. He’d bought it purely for offensive action, and never thought he’d become the hunted.

Behind him was a cut-stone staircase leading sharply down the hill, the drop to the steps about fifteen feet. To his front was the regular exit of the restaurant, leading straight by the target’s table.

Staircase it is.

He swiftly turned, strode to the stone wall that prevented drunkards from falling, and flipped over the side. He hung for a brief second, hearing a gasp from two pedestrians, then dropped.

He hammered the ground hard, one foot high, one low, rolling on his ankle. He glanced up and saw a couple, the woman with her mouth covered, and ignored them both. He skipped down the steps two at a time, seeing the flow of pedestrians on the street below.

Plaka, he knew, was an ancient neighborhood devoid of vehicles. An area made of twisting streets, tourist shops, and claustrophobic alleys, the only thing that penetrated the pedestrian throngs were minibikes and mopeds. He had to get to a taxi, and he needed to get out of Plaka to do so.

He glanced up the stairwell and saw two men appear, both with black leather jackets and beards. Not tourists. They began to follow.

Because of the way their own meeting had been arranged, Nikos had to assume he was official US government, but Guy had no idea how much weight that would carry.

He hit the road below and turned right, toward Syntagma Square and the coughing, congested streets of Athens.