Disavowed (8 page)

Chapter 16

Kandahar, Afghanistan

12:11am AFT, August 25
th

Anthony Farrago swore under his breath. Not only had that prick Rich Isnard slipped through the incompetent fingers of the Afghan police, military AND their intelligence force, they’d done it four hours before . The moron on the other end of the conversation kept going on and on about a rebel division swooping down in the middle of the night. He wasn’t making any sense.

Farrago knew from long experience that Arabs had the bad habit of overstating enemy forces. That was especially the case if said forces overwhelmed their own.
Cowards and liars
.

He’d heard enough. “You listen to me. Tell your boss that not another penny will go into his account if he doesn’t find those two.”

More blathering on the other end. Excuses. Promises. Empty words.

“Just do it,” Farrago growled.

Anthony Farrago hadn’t risen to the right hand of a deputy director of the CIA by being nice. Sure his attitude had bit him in the ass more than once, but that’s what fiery Italian-Americans did, bawl people out every once in a while. If that meant stomping on a few toes and chewing some ass, Farrago was only too happy to comply.

Even though he felt like he was on the wrong side of fifty when he looked in the mirror every morning, the career spook knew he had plenty of years left. Three marriages and four stints in rehab later, Farrago had come up the hard way. From the frozen streets of Minneapolis to a tour in the Navy, and finally to where he hoped to die: The Central Intelligence Agency.

He’d begun his CIA career as an embassy staffer in Rome, learning the ropes from a crusty station chief who’d cut his teeth on the front lines of Moscow during the Cold War. They’d become friends and for a while Farrago was the golden child, gathering contacts and spies like the Pied Piper.

He was in high demand and spent time all over the world until finally settling in the Middle East. After 9/11 there’d been so much work that he rarely saw home, hence the repeated attempts at marriage and occasional relapse into the bottle. Each time the CIA picked him up, dusted him off, then sent him on to the next thing.

Now he lived on the road, relishing the freedom, spurning long-term relationships in exchange for life-or-death intrigue. Along the way he’d slipped a couple times. His mouth did have a way of interjecting at the wrong time. He’d written them off as minor mistakes, but in truth they’d derailed his aspirations of becoming a station chief. That’s what he’d always wanted. Lord of the manor. Now Farrago was damaged goods, but not damaged enough to get the boot. He’d gotten the ultimatum from Kingsley Coles himself, “Work for me or you’re out.”

The position started out as more of an administrative role, something Farrago hated. But he soon came to see the political appointee just wanted to get a better feel for the headstrong Italian. Within months, Farrago was on the road every other week, then three weeks out of each month. Courier deliveries led to inspections which morphed into what he was doing now, anything he wanted.

He was given autonomy and the resources to do what had to be done. Coles didn’t want to know all the details and that was fine with Farrago. Left alone he was a cunning operator, flexing his muscles as needed. He liked the variety and the power. Who wouldn’t?

Like this operation. It was exactly what Farrago wanted. A guy like Rich Isnard was too young and inexperienced to be a station chief. Sure the kid was good, but Baghdad? No way. Things had to be corrected and Farrago would spearhead the effort. The Agency had gotten soft. It was time to put a boot in certain orifices.

Isnard and that Marine, Andrews, had gone too far, encroached on his turf. Sure he’d twisted a few truths and doctored a couple of reports, but that was all part of the game, part of his job. Coles understood. There was a bigger picture to take into account. Upstarts like Isnard and Andrews didn’t get that. They were Boy Scouts in a den of howling wolves. Farrago was the alpha male tasked with fixing the problem.

There were multiple fronts to fight. It was all part of the fun. He’d give the Afghans one more day to find Isnard and Andrews. Farrago would personally oversee the rest.

He looked at his watch. Probably another thirty minutes. Farrago leaned back against his dented loaner, his tongue running along his upper lip in anticipation. A beer or shot of rum would be nice, but he’d sworn off the stuff. Too bad.

He exhaled.

The runway was quiet for now. In thirty minutes it would be Ground Zero. 

+++

12:34am

The Gulfstream touched down, its occupants feeling barely a thump as every tire settled.

“Welcome to Kandahar, ladies and gents. Thanks for flying
TJG
airlines. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.”

Everyone chuckled at Johnny Power’s announcement. It was the last of many they’d heard over the preceding hours. The guy was a bottomless well of wit.

There’d been plenty of time on the flight over to get acquainted with the new team members. The three pilots rotated every other hour, coming to the back when they weren’t flying. The three men, even the quiet Benny Fletcher, were going to fit in nicely. Cal understood the simple fact that, because they were once again part of a pseudo-military unit, it made the men happy. He was pretty sure they’d accept a lot less pay just to be onboard.

Not that Cal would think of paying them less. If the last three years were any indication, what Cal and his team did was dangerous. He was happy to have the ability to pay his men handsomely. They deserved it.

“Cal, can you come up to the cockpit?” came Jim’s voice over the speaker system.

Cal unlatched his seat belt and made his way to the front. Jim turned when the reinforced cockpit door opened.

“You expecting company?” he asked, pointing into the hazy night.

Cal bent at the waist and looked out the thick glass window. The runway was still except for a vehicle flashing its headlights in the middle of the tarmac.

“Did you talk to the tower?” asked Cal.

“Yeah. They don’t know anything about the truck.”

The plane slowed as it neared the vehicle. There were two men standing outside their respective doors. Cal squinted.

“I’ll be damned.”

“You recognize them?” asked Johnny Powers.

“Yeah. Can you open one of these windows?”

“Uh huh. Here, switch with me.”

Jim opened the side window and swapped places with Cal. Cal stuck his head out the window.

“To what do we have the honor of Her Majesty’s finest?” he shouted over the engine noise.

Gene Kreyling was an easily recognizable figure. Gray eyepatch over one eye, the gruff British operator stood like an iron golem. He’d been part of Cal’s operation to stamp out ISIS earlier that month. Their relationship had started contentiously, but Cal now considered the brusque warrior part of the family. The man on the other side of the truck was Kreyling’s number two, Rango.

Kreyling didn’t say anything, just motioned for the plane to follow them. Cal nodded and popped back in the window.

“What’s that about?” asked Johnny.

Cal didn’t have a clue. No one was supposed to know they were coming. The last he’d heard Kreyling had been tasked with helping the U.N. train its new anti-terrorism reaction force. Hell, he’d recommended him for it. President Zimmer, the architect of the Zimmer Doctrine and the newly formed reaction force, was more than happy to forward Cal’s recommendation to the general commanding the team.

Not that he wasn’t happy to see his friends, but the fact that they’d been waiting was more than a little unsettling. Who else knew they were coming?

“Follow that truck,” Cal told the pilots. “Oh, and make sure you’re ready to take off if we need to.”

The Powers brother exchanged questioning looks as if to say, “Is this what it’s always like with these guys?”

Chapter 17

Kandahar, Afghanistan

12:40am AFT, August 25
th

As the minutes slipped by, Anthony Farrago’s frustration clicked higher. There’d only been one landing in the last hour and that was on an auxiliary strip on the farthest edge of the tarmac. He couldn’t make out the markings thanks to the haze and gloom. The runway lighting was just barely acceptable for night use. Seeing anything from afar was impossible.

The control tower manager had assured Farrago that the American plane was going to land and taxi to this exact spot. No phone calls to say differently. Farrago resisted the urge to call the tower. Instead he walked around his sedan and found his men waiting behind a shoulder high concrete wall. Eighteen men. Private contractors. Experienced men. All of Afghan descent.

He’d used them before. They weren’t as good as American contractors, but they knew the land and did jobs for a tenth of what American contractors would. These guys knew their place, mostly because they had nowhere else to go.

Kicked out of various Afghan agencies for a wide range of offenses ranging from drunkenness to rape, they were the scum their country no longer wanted. Perfect for what Farrago had in mind.

“I’m going up to the tower. Keep on eye out for the airplane,” Farrago told the team leader, a hulking man with one ear and a jagged scar across his forehead.

The man nodded and went back to puffing on his cigarette. Farrago left the mercenaries, criminals really. He knew a guy like Kingsley Coles would never associate with such men, but they were right up Farrago’s alley. Ruthless. Uncaring. Expendable.

Despite his impatience, he smiled as he made his way up to the tower to see what was taking so long. It was only a matter of time before he let his hounds loose.

+++

Kreyling led the Gulfstream off the auxiliary runway and into a portion of the airport that looked abandoned. The hangar was large enough to accommodate something twice their size, but its doors looked like they were about to fall off and the roof probably did little to keep the weather out.

The Brit met Cal at the bottom of the steps.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” Cal said. “What’s going on?”

“Me and Rango were in town as advanced party for the U.N. Ran into some old S.A.S. pals who caught wind of some CIA operation going down tonight.”

CIA?

“What’s that got to do with us?”

“I ignored it at first but then some drunk Afghan spouted off about
Jefferson
something. That got my attention. You don’t hear the natives mentioning that kind of name. So I bought him a drink, and he starts bragging about some rich bastard his team is going to take down. He finally remembered the name of the rich guy’s company, The Jefferson Group.”

Cal froze. Kreyling was one of maybe thirty people, including twenty of Cal’s own men and the president, who knew The Jefferson Group’s real mission.

“And then what happened?”

“I left and started asking around. A few pounds got me what I needed. They were planning on taking you right after landing.”

“And you’re saying it’s a CIA operation?”

Kreyling nodded.

“You hear who’s in charge?”

“Some American, but no one knew his name. He’s been in country before. Apparently knows people inside the Afghan government.”

They’d been on the ground for less than five minutes and were already in the thick of it.

“Can you get us out of here?” asked Cal.

“Your people? Sure. The plane, no.”

“What do we do with the plane?”

“How good is your pilot?”

“Very.”

“Then he might just have a chance of leaving, but he has to go right now.”

There went their way out. Cal was sure that the Powers brothers could find a safe place to wait, possibly the UAE or Bahrain.

“Fine. Give me a minute to brief my guys and then we’ll go.”

Kreyling nodded and left the drab hangar. Cal joined his men and told them about the situation. Although more than one team member’s eyebrows rose, no one interrupted.

“Doc, I think you and Neil should go with the plane. Things might get hairy.”

Dr. Higgins lips pursed. “Calvin, I assure you that I am more than capable of fending for myself.” Illustrating the point, Higgins pulled a pistol out of some unseen holster in his back waistband. Cal had never seen the genial psychologist armed, but by the way the good doctor was handling the weapon, it looked like he was no novice. He should’ve known that Higgins’s former employer, the Central Intelligence Agency, would train their lead interrogator in basic combat skills.

That thought gave Cal an idea.

“Hey, doc, you familiar with any current spooks with extensive experience in Afghanistan?”

“It has been a few years, but yes, I probably know the more important players.”

“Do you think you could help us narrow down the list if we got a physical description?”

Cal knew it was a long shot, but without Isnard and Andy in hand, they were going to need all the help they could get.

“I will do my best.”

“Great. You’re in. Now, the rest of us need to go. Take care of my new baby,” Cal said to the pilots who were standing at the top of the steps.

“You’ve got our number. Call us when you need us.”

Cal nodded to his newest team members and picked up his pack. Would there ever be an operation when the plan didn’t crumble as soon as they’d stepped off? If his time in the Marine Corps taught him anything it was that a plan rarely kept its original form as soon as you said “Go.”
Par for the course.

+++

Farrago’s fist clenched, knuckles cracking. The tower manager backed away slowly, his hand reaching for the black phone mounted to the wall.

“You grab that phone and I break your hand,” Farrago said.

The balding airport employee dropped his hands to his sides. Sweat ran down his face, dripping to the ground.

Farrago stepped forward and grabbed the front of the man’s stained shirt.

“Now, tell me exactly what happened.”