Extreme Faction (28 page)

Max looked confused.

“We only followed one here,” Gregory said.

“I know. It doesn't mean there aren't more inside. Our orders from Langley are to try to take these two alive. Or three. You told Berlin the man you were following flew under the name Baskale?”

“That's right.”

“Well that's the name of the pilot who dropped the nerve gas on the Astrodome.”

Gregory thought about that. It didn't sound right. Something was screwed up with the timing, but there was no time to argue the point. “So how in the hell should we proceed. For all we know, these guys could have nerve gas in there.”

Max shuddered with the thought. He had spent far too many hours in chemical warfare suits, until his skin had turned black from all the charcoal, to even think about nerve gas. Give him lead any day. Bullets. That's how to kill someone. Blow a hole in them.

The Brussels officer shrugged. “We don't have time to round up chem gear. Let's go. You can't live forever.”

The three of them headed off toward the apartment house. As they did, two other men got out of the car behind them, and three from the car ahead. There was no way to hide their approach. They had to hope no one was looking outside. Once they got inside, Belgian police would show up outside, blocking any exit.

Inside, the men quietly made their way to the second floor and took up positions. Everyone knew the drill. Surprise was the key.

The Brussels man pulled a Mac 10 automatic from inside his coat and nodded his head to Max and Gregory, who were straddling him on each side of the door.

With one quick motion, the Brussels officer kicked in the door, screamed out orders in French, flying into the room.

Two men inside scurried for weapons lying on a coffee table.

Brussels sprayed a blast of bullets against a wall, and the men froze.

By now, Max and Gregory were inside, their guns pointing the way around the room.

Behind them came a wave of others.

Max grabbed one of the men and threw him to the ground, placing his gun at the man's head. “Where's the other?” He asked in German.

The man didn't say a word.

“Where's Baskale?” He tried in English.

Still no answer.

Gregory turned over the man he had been holding to one of the other Brussels officers, and Max did the same. Together they quickly scanned the room and noticed the bedroom door closed.

Just as they were about to crash through the door, bullets started exploding from the wood. They each dove to the side, their weapons aimed at the door.

Behind them, one of the Brussels officers and a Kurd were hit by the spray of bullets and collapsed to the floor.

“Hosap,” Max yelled. “Stop shooting. Nobody has to die here today,” he continued in German. He glanced back at the two men hit on the floor. The Brussels officer had taken a round in the shoulder, but he was pulling the Kurd away toward the outer door. The Kurd took a shot in the stomach, but he'd probably live.

“
Shade
!
Eine Kriger sterben auf Schlacht
.”

“This isn't a battle,” Max yelled back.

Before the Kurd could answer, there were two separate guns firing within the room.

“All clear,” came a call in French from within the room. The Belgians must have come up the back stairs and fired through the window.

Seconds later, the bedroom door opened and two Belgians dressed in black clothing came out, followed by a cloud of gun smoke.

“Damn it,” Gregory said, as he noticed the man he had followed from Germany lay riddled with bullet holes on the floor against the bed. “We needed him alive.”

The Belgians shrugged.

ADANA, TURKEY

Jake's flight from Istanbul to Adana had been less than impressive. He flew in one of those old sputtering-engined behemoths that seemed like only a miracle would keep it in the air. His only solace had been a splendid view of Ankara, and he had smiled thinking of some of the times he and Sinclair Tucker had roamed the streets at night, searching for those unknown places that the average tourist would never see. If there was an average tourist in the Turkish capital.

Having packed light for the trip, carrying a single bag aboard with him, Jake stood now in the arrivals area of Adana airport, wondering about his friend, Sinclair. He knew Tuck was still alive. And if Jake was right, Tucker would be doing everything in his power to escape and find out if the Kurds were producing Tvchenko's new weapon.

Jake noticed a large young man scanning the crowd near the exit. He looked like a U.S. Marine, with tight cropped hair, a chiseled jaw, muscles that dwarfed the people around him, and perfect posture. The man was wearing jeans and a sweaty Khaki shirt that bulged with each movement. Jake suspected the man was an Air Force security police sergeant in his early twenties.

Moving to within a few feet, Jake reached his hand out to the man. “Jake Adams,” he said.

The man startled. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn't have a photo of you.” He shook Jake's hand. “I'm Sergeant Maki.”

Tully had told Jake a man would meet him at the airport and drive him to Incirlik Air Base, but that was all. “That's all right.” Jake thought for a moment. “You were expecting someone a little different?”

“Well—”

“Let me guess. Your boss, a security police captain, told you to show up here and pick up some spook. So naturally you assumed I'd be some huge sonofabitch with teeth like a lion. Am I right?” Jake started toward the door.

The airman didn't know what to say. He looked embarrassed.

“It doesn't matter,” Jake said over his shoulder. “Let's go.”

Outside, there was a circular drive lined with taxis double parked. Two drivers at the front of the pack were arguing over who should get the next fare. Jake looked around for his ride, and then headed toward a newer Volkswagen Eurovan with Turkish plates. By the time Jake reached the van's passenger door, the airman had caught up with him.

“You have a key to this boat?” Jake asked, smiling.

The airman quickly opened the door for him, helped Jake put his bag in the side, and then they both climbed in.

The airman was about to crank over the engine when he glanced sideways at Jake. “Sir? How did you know which vehicle?”

“Sergeant Maki. You're a Yooper. Probably from Marquette, Michigan. You joined the Air Force at age seventeen because you couldn't play hockey and you didn't want to cut pulpwood for the rest of your life. But you wanted to be a soldier without being a Marine or Army grunt. So you chose security police, where you could still be a real man. Stop me whenever I miss something.”

The sergeant was dumfounded. Finally he shook his head, smiled, and turned over the engine. He put it in gear and headed off. “It wasn't Marquette. It was Houghton.”

The sergeant drove toward Incirlik, winding the van through cluttered streets where cars sat abandoned along the side, their hoods popped up and frustrated drivers leaning in to fix them. Horns blared and sirens sounded all around. Not much had changed since the last time Jake had been there. He could still smell the familiar kabobs wafting ubiquitously. He loved the kabobs. Jake and Sinclair had spent a week at Incirlik being briefed by day on what was happening across the border in Iraq. By night they had tried to put a dent in the local beer supply. He remembered how hot and humid the place had been. It was sweltering now, and he slid his leather coat off and threw it in the back. As he did, his ribs twisted wrong, bringing extreme pain. He had almost forgotten about the bruised ribs. They were healing, but wouldn't be back to a hundred percent for weeks.

Sergeant Maki entered the north gate of Incirlik Air Base without fanfare and proceeded along a tree-lined boulevard, pulling up to a small one-story earth tone building that resembled a shabby house with a flat top. There was no sign out front, unlike all the other buildings on base, so Jake immediately assumed it was the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, or OSI. While a captain in Air Force intelligence, Jake had worked closely with OSI special agents during one of those well-intentioned president's war on drugs.

“Sir, you can leave your bag here with me,” Sergeant Maki said. “They want you in there for a briefing.”

Jake looked up and down the street. The building was completely isolated, with no cars sitting out front to indicate anyone was even inside. “Thanks. Where will I find my bag when this is over?”

The sergeant hesitated. “I was told to bring it to the Visiting Officers' Quarters.”

“Where someone will dig through it with a fine-toothed comb, no doubt,” Jake said. “I can save you guys the effort. There's nothing in there but dirty clothes mingling with clean clothes.”

The sergeant smiled. “I just follow orders, sir.”

That's the problem, Jake thought. It's one of the reasons he'd left the Air Force and the CIA. Too many people following orders. Jake retrieved his leather coat, got out and shut the door behind him, and then leaned through the window. “You tell those bastards I'm gonna count my skivvies when I get my bag back.”

Sergeant Maki laughed and then drove off.

Jake wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He wasn't used to the heat anymore. It was difficult to breathe. He wished he'd have some time to acclimate, but knew time was important. It was nearly dinner time, and he guessed he'd be briefed and on a helicopter by dark.

He knocked on the heavy door, saw a camera above and to the left in a corner, heard a buzz, so he pushed the door inward. Inside was a narrow passageway with another door at the end. A large man quickly came out the door. He was wearing a green T-shirt, tight to his skin, with a 9mm Beretta strapped under his left arm.

Without saying a word, the man checked Jake for weapons and used a hand scanner to sanitize him for bugs.

“Can I see your passport?” the man finally asked.

Jake slipped his passport from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the man.

The man gave it a once-over without a single facial variance and then handed it back and nodded for him to enter the other door.

“Thanks, sergeant,” Jake said. He knew OSI agents hated being called by a rank. It somehow made them feel less important, less mysterious.

Inside the other door was a conference table with six men gathered, all dressed in dark battle fatigues, looking over papers spread out in front of them.

Standing behind the table was two other men. Jake immediately recognized the largest of the men at the table as Steve Nelsen.

Nelsen looked up. His eyes were red from no sleep. It looked as if he'd been crying. He took a long sip on a mug of coffee, keeping an eye trained on Jake the whole time. When he was done, he moved out from behind the desk and met Jake at the door.

“How the fuck did you ever get involved with this thing?” Nelsen asked, his hands on his hips.

“Nice to see you too,” Jake said.

Nelsen pointed a finger at Jake's chest. “I want one thing clear right from the start. I run this operation. Civilians better stay clear.”

“If you want to keep that finger, get it away from me.”

Nelsen glared into Jake's eyes.

“I don't take orders from you, Nelsen,” Jake said. “I was told I run the operation.”

“You're a fuckin' civilian.”

“So is your boss. So is the president. Besides, when did you join the military?”

Nelsen looked like he'd explode, when another man came between them and reached out his hand to Jake. “So you're Jake Adams,” he said. “I'm Ricardo Garcia. Steve's associate. It'll be great working with you. I've heard so much about you, I feel I know you already.”

Jake shook the man's hand and smiled. “I hope you got a better briefing than Steve would have given you.”

Garcia laughed. “I'm still learning what's bullshit or not with him.”

Nelsen glanced sideways at Garcia and mumbled something under his breath. Then he said, “Let's cut the fucking pleasantries and get to work. We've got terrorists on the loose. Ricardo, make sure these guys know exactly what we want of them. And get the damn pilot over here pronto.”

Garcia smiled and took a seat at the table with the soldiers.

Nelsen pulled Jake aside and escorted him to a back room, a soundproof interrogation room. He took a seat at a wooden table and motioned for Jake to do the same. Then he opened a folder and spread out six satellite photographs.

Jake sat down and reached for the photos.

“Not so fast,” Nelsen said, slamming his hand onto the photos. “I want to know how in the hell you got involved with all this?”

Jake smiled. “It bothers you, doesn't it. Just a regular guy helping the Agency track down terrorists.”

Nelsen saw where Jake was heading, and decided not to bite. “Bother me? Yeah, it bothers me. You quit the old Agency. Some said you were fired. I wouldn't have doubted that for a minute. You were one insolent bastard all along.”

“Respect should be earned,” Jake shot back. “Some people think it comes with their position.”

“See what I mean. It does come with the position, asshole.”

“Listen. If we keep this up, the bad guys will die of old age. And I'm sure you'd rather help them along with a little lead poisoning. That is your specialty.”

“There you go again,” Nelsen said. “You think I'm some fucking Rambo. Shoot first and then make up answers from a dead corpse.”

“Now that you mention it.”

They stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment, each waiting for the other to blink.

Finally, Jake reached across for the photos again, and Nelsen let him have them. The first two were close up shots of helicopter wreckage, still smoldering. The next two showed a wider view of a mountain village, and Jake wasn't sure what he was looking for in them. And the last two were closer views of an old mosque.