Extreme Faction (16 page)

Garcia looked around and then shook his head. “The man in the bathroom. That's Kukulcan...Miguel Blanca. The man at the table out front is his bodyguard.”

“Looks like he fucked up in that regard,” Nelsen said.

“You're right. I've never seen the girl before.”

“Probably fuck of the week,” Nelsen said. “Let's check the place over completely. There could be something here saying where the Kurds are going, and why.”

Garcia agreed with a nod and headed back into the main room.

Nelsen moved in for a closer look at the woman. He stooped down next to her and moved a piece of hair back away from her eyes. She had been a pretty woman, he was sure. Young. Mid-twenties, perhaps. She exercised. Took care of herself. He liked that. She didn't deserve to die like this, to cover someone's tracks. He moved back from the woman and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the Kurds in this room. They wanted something here. But what? He traced their movements from the front room to the bathroom and then to the bedroom. The guy at the table had not known what hit him. Miguel Blanca must have seen it coming, but couldn't do a thing to stop it. And this woman. She had a scared look on her face. She had died last, scurrying to the farthest corner of the house. What did the Kurds want here? They were close, but where were they going with the weapon? Maybe Kukulcan was their transportation, and they were simply clearing their tracks from the trail behind them.

ODESSA, UKRAINE

“Well, Tuck. What do you say?” Jake sat on a park bench along Primorski Boulevard, his eyes focused on Sinclair Tucker sitting next to him. The Brit crossed his long legs and shoved his driving cap to the back of his head. Tucker was clearly thinking it over. Jake had asked him for a safe house to keep Petra Kovarik and her friend Helena until things settled down a bit. Tucker was unusually concerned, as if Jake were asking for more than he was. They both knew that MI-6 had places like this. Apartments or houses used to interrogate or hide agents or suspects for short periods of time. The problem was, the intelligence agencies all liked to keep the places to themselves.

Tucker smiled and shook his head. “You know, Jake, my boss would have my ass if he knew.”

“He's in Kiev,” Jake said. “You're in charge down here.”

That was true, but Tucker still didn't like the idea of giving up his location. That was evident by his stiff jaw and the incertitude in his eyes.

Jake looked across the street at the front of Tucker's bogus company, Black Sea Communications. Jake had showed up unexpectedly and hauled him across the street. He knew that Tucker would have had the entire building covered with cameras and sound, so he'd have to talk across the wide street, with cars and trucks zipping by. The noise was more than any recorder could handle.

“Come on Tuck, I'm not asking you to kill someone,” Jake said. “I just need a safe place.”

Tucker didn't budge. He watched the people pass on the sidewalk in front of him. An older man. A woman with a young child in a rickety stroller. Two young men walking arm in arm.

“We're working together here,” Jake pleaded. “I can do it without you, but I'd like to work with you. Remember, you asked me for cooperation.”

That seemed to work. Tucker turned toward Jake. “Share what you find out from the women?”

Jake thought about that. He hadn't been told not to share information, and it was a common practice. A professional courtesy. “Sure. You'll know what I know.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Tucker said. “It appears like you had a jump on us with this one. With the scientist's assistant and all.”

“What do you know?” Jake asked.

Tucker smiled. “That's a bit premature, Jake.”

“Not really. You tell me what you know up to this point, and I'll give you what I know. Then we'll fill in the blanks as they happen.”

“That's fair,” Tucker said. He told Jake everything he knew. About Tvchenko's contacts with certain foreigners, that they still had not identified. How he had his men checking all known GRU agents in Odessa, to see if they had been pushing Tvchenko into developing new weapons. The jury was still out on that. He mentioned how they even had one of the agents working for them, but he couldn't give Jake the name.

When Tucker was done, Jake explained everything he knew, from the tiny note Tvchenko had planted in his hand, to his employers, MacCarty and Swanson getting poisoned, and finally to the point where he and Quinn had found Petra at the friend's apartment. He even speculated on the theft of the chemical nerve agent from Johnston Atoll being related to this case in some way. Only time would tell if he was correct.

“What are the Kurds up to?” Tucker asked.

“I don't know for sure,” Jake said. “They've been pushed and shoved so many times they probably don't know for sure themselves. Their biggest problem traditionally has been their inability to agree on anything. Maybe the various factions and tribal leaders have finally united in a great effort for autonomy and a free Kurdistan homeland. If that's the case, watch out. That's twenty million pissed off mountain people. I've seen them fight. They don't understand the word surrender.”

Sinclair Tucker rose from the bench and planted his hands deep into his pants pockets. “I'll tell you what, Jake. I'll contact our people in Turkey and see what they've heard.”

“I'll do the same.” Jake reached his hand out to shake, and received a key in his palm from Tucker. Jake folded it in his fist. “And?”

Tucker whispered the address and then immediately skirted across the street between traffic and into his office building.

Jake slid his hands into his pockets, dropping the key among his own. He quickly memorized the address by repeating it over and over in his head, while strolling down the sidewalk toward Tully's Volga.

SOUTHWEST TEXAS

Steve Nelsen was flipping through the gears, barely keeping the Ford Ranger on the winding dirt road. Without the four-wheel drive, the truck would have careened off the road miles back.

Nelsen had heard over the radio about the Suburban blown to pieces on the bank of the Rio Grande, knew exactly what had happened, had quickly inspected the smoldering shell of a truck, and hurried to the nearest bridge to cross into Texas. He had had to drive five miles through scrub brush and then along a bumpy dirt cow path to reach a rickety old wooden bridge that had looked safe enough for a single walker, perhaps a young boy on a bicycle, but surely not a Ford 4x4 pickup cruising at high speed, followed closely by two Jeep Cherokees with four Agency officers. A lone Mexican customs agent had stopped them before they crossed the bridge, and Nelsen had nearly ripped his throat out while pointing his gun at the man's head, before Garcia had stopped him and explained calmly in Spanish that they were in hot pursuit of international terrorists and every second counted.

They were waved through on the U.S. side, after calling ahead on the radio first.

It was just after nine in the morning, and Nelsen suspected the terrorists had a few hours head start. His only advantage, he thought, was they would be driving the speed limit, maybe even slower, so they wouldn't attract the local cops. They couldn't afford to be stopped. Also, if they had crossed the river across from the bombed truck, then they would have had to drive across extremely rough Texas outback, so they would have been driving slow to keep the bomblets from breaking open.

Nelsen had called in his position for backup by CIA interior officers working out of the El Paso office. Four agents in two other vehicles were converging on their position, aided by Presidio County Sheriff's units and a pair of Texas Rangers. If everything went as planned, Nelsen would have the terrorists and the bomb boxed in. If he could keep the truck on the road.

He swerved dangerously close to the edge of the dirt track, nearly sliding down a steep embankment.

Nelsen's partner, Ricardo Garcia, sat in the passenger side of the truck cab grasping the armrest, his knuckles turning white.

“Catching the bad guys would require us living. Isn't that right?” Garcia asked.

Nelsen twisted the wheel furiously. “You can get out any time, Ricky.”

“Yeah, right.” Garcia glanced behind, but could only see dust. “Do you suppose the boys are keeping up?”

“They know where we're heading,” Nelsen said. “Besides, they can't lose us. Just follow the dust cloud.”

“How do you know where these guys are heading?”

Nelsen hated answering questions. If the Agency would let him work alone, he would. “Simple. These bozos aren't Americans, yet they've had help every step of the way.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head, as if to say how in the hell did this guy get into the Agency. He continued, “They've been able to keep just out of reach. Somebody in America is supporting them. Sanctioning them. We checked out all possible subversive groups in Texas, and that wasn't easy. But we knew their nationality, or in their case their multiple nationalities. There were very few nationalized citizens. Those who were did not impose a threat.”

“And you were going to tell me this when?” Garcia asked.

Nelsen disregarded his partner as he braked and braced for a sharp corner. The back of the truck fishtailed. He continued. “So what was next? Students. We checked the databases for every college in Texas, then we had agents, escorted by campus security, check out every one last night. We narrowed it down to five possibles. Then later to two. Both are Iranians. But they aren't Persians.”

“Let me guess. Kurds.”

“Exactly.” Nelsen thought it over. He wasn't used to working with a partner. “Sorry, Garcia. I called this in after talking with the Cypriot. I just forgot to tell you.”

The truck reeled around another corner, nearly crashing through a bushy clump of yucca. To the north, the landscape evened off slightly. To the south were jagged points of rock and dirt, topped by scrawny pines and cacti. Nelsen imagined it was a great place for rattlesnakes.

“Get on the horn and see if the locals have cut off the other end yet,” Nelsen ordered. “I don't want those bastards getting away.”

Garcia switched frequencies and called in. The sheriff and his men were in place five miles away. They had two helicopters in the air, but had not seen any other vehicles yet.

“Fucking podunks. Give me that thing.” Nelsen swiped the handset from Garcia. “Listen Goddammit. You tell those chopper pukes to get their asses in gear and open their eyes. Anything moves out on this wasteland makes one hell of a dust cloud. They should be able to see that for ten miles.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“Don't piss these locals off,” Garcia warned. “They're libel to let the bastards slip through on purpose. Let them head off to a different county.”

Nelsen knew he was right, but he hated to admit it. “If I catch them pulling that shit, I'll shoot them myself.” He glared over at Garcia for an uncomfortably long few seconds, his eyes away from the dangerous road.

Garcia turned away.

●

The Suburban had been off the road behind high brush when four county sheriff's cars passed by in a hurry, lights flashing, just minutes before the cars had turned to set up the road block two miles down the open road. A lone helicopter swooped low across the foothills of the Del Norte Mountains a few miles away.

Baskale started the engine and then inched the truck up the embankment, the four-wheel drive digging the tires into the dirt, but not spinning. The map showed a crossroad ahead. Paved. The Suburban crept onto the dirt road, and Baskale checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. The truck headed northeast right at the speed limit. Baskale didn't want to bring any attention to his truck. He knew that the men were looking for him. Finally, a challenge. He smiled outwardly, but also felt he couldn't afford to get caught. Not before he was done.

In a few miles, Baskale turned north onto U.S. Highway 67. He had zig-zagged across nearly every dirt road in the county, and now it was time to make up for lost time on a few paved roads. He would head east after a few miles, then north again, repeating the pattern and staying away from any towns of size. He would change vehicles soon, and would have to kill again, covering his tracks. Nothing would be left to chance. There was too much at stake.

Baskale kept looking into his mirror, but there was no one there.

●

Nelsen slowed the Ranger down as he approached the road block. He skidded to a halt and slammed his hand against the wheel. “Fucking shit. Where the hell did they go?”

Garcia got out and started talking with the sheriff.

In a couple of minutes, the two Jeep Cherokees came up behind them, the entire vehicles covered in dust, with only spots on the windshields cleared by overworked wipers.

Nelsen slid out and unfolded a map onto the hot hood. He slashed his finger to the north across the map, figuring they had to have passed the sheriff cars somewhere along County Highway 169.

“It would help if we knew where in the hell those bastards are heading,” Nelsen muttered to himself.

Garcia and the sheriff were at Nelsen's side now.

“What now?” Garcia asked.

“I want every road within a hundred miles blocked to the north at Interstate 10,” Nelsen started, sliding his finger along the blue interstate line. “Every stinking little skunk trail. Cut off the county lines here and here,” he said, swishing his finger like a knife across the paper. “Call in more air support from Goodfellow and Laughlin Air Force Bases in the east.”

“We don't have authority for that,” the sheriff said.

“No, but I do,” Nelsen said, his teeth clenched. “You tell anyone who asks that this is by order of the Central Intelligence Agency. As you may or may not know, we have authority and jurisdiction over whomever we need.”