One Child (22 page)

Chapter

38

Midtown Manhattan, New York

William
Fleming
's penthouse overlooked the mid-section of Central Park West, with a view of the back side of the Metropolitan Museum. He loved the building, the art, the sculptures, everything about it. Except the crowds of tourists. Occasionally he spotted another true New Yorker, perusing the exhibits, thoughtful and cultivated. He enjoyed sharing the space with them - everyone else could go to hell.

Sunday mornings were the worst. He could see them from his balcony, milling about, families with young children who were probably so out of control they would try to touch the art. He turned his back on the sight and retreated to the quiet luxury that twenty million dollars buys. The penthouse afforded him a three hundred and sixty degree view. One-way reflective glass darkened the room a bit, but it was a small price to pay to keep out prying eyes. He settled into a chair with a west-facing view and set his coffee on the table.

His meeting with
Carson
Grant Saturday afternoon was on his mind. The young MBA had risked taking down the exchanges in order to out-game the other high frequency trading firms. He had mixed feelings about that.
Carson
was brash. Perhaps too brash to be managing the HFT division. But he was also capable of making gutsy decisions unbothered by the threat of a meltdown. He had let the stripped down algorithm loose on the markets in favor of buoying profits. When the computers had run out of control, he had jumped in and stopped them before too much damage was done. Best of all,
Carson
had ensured all the trading was in dark pools in order to protect their identity. Smart. Very smart. At the end of the day, the carnage was untraceable.

On one hand, he wanted to fire
Carson
. On the other, he felt a massive bonus was warranted. The middle ground was probably the most logical. Do nothing. Watch him and see how he reacted to the fallout which was coming tomorrow morning. At least five companies were going to see their stocks plummet once they reported there was nothing tangible to justify the huge increase in Friday's stock price. What goes up must come down. That cliche was never truer than with an overvalued stock.

Fleming
wondered how
Carson
was faring. When they had met in his office yesterday, he had seemed fine. But much of that could be an act. Under the skin his emotions could be churning like surf in a hurricane. He'd find out tomorrow.

What Trey Miller had said to him on Wednesday was still bothering him. Some unknown person had hacked into the CIA computer and looked in Miller's file. Trey felt the intrusion had something to do with the U2 concert. It was obvious that Trey didn't believe in coincidences. Neither did he. Someone was poking around in things that didn't involve them.

The phone rang and he answered it. A man's voice asked if he was speaking with William
Fleming
.

"Yes, this is
Fleming
. With whom am I speaking?"

"Mr.
Fleming
, this is Greg Stanfield. I work in the security department at your Platinus office on Avenue of the Americas."

"All right, Greg. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you accessed your private e-mail when you were in Cabo San Lucas?"

Every cell in
Fleming
's body snapped to attention. "No, why are you asking?"

"Someone logged into your e-mail, sir. There is a note on our records that indicates you do not check your e-mail when you're in Cabo or southern France."

Fleming
's mind was moving at warp speed. "When was the intrusion?"

"Last Wednesday, at 9:16 pm."

"How long were they in?"

"Four minutes."

"What did they look at?"

"E-mails from two different senders." He rattled off the addresses, which
Fleming
immediately recognized as Trey Miller's and Jorge Amistav's.

"Do you know who it was?"
Fleming
asked, his grip on the phone getting tighter by the second.

"No, sir. It's impossible to tell exactly what computer was used, but I can tell you for a certainty that the intruder was on the Platinus server. The intrusion came from inside the building."

"Are you sure?"
Fleming
asked. His hand was shaking and his grip threatened to crush the phone.

"Positive," the security man said.

"Send me a report on this with everything you have. I want to know exactly what you know."

"I'll deliver it myself, sir," Greg said.

Fleming
gave him his address and set the phone back in its cradle. He sat unmoving for thirty seconds, then he reached out and grabbed a cut-glass sculpture from the coffee table and threw it across the room. It hit the credenza and split the wood front. Shattered glass flew in all directions. Within seconds the doors from an adjoining room flew open and two men rushed in. One was holding a pistol, the other had his shooting hand close to his chest. Their eyes searched the room for an intruder.

"It's fine,"
Fleming
said tersely. "I dropped something."

The first man in the room nodded. "Of course, sir."

"Send someone in to clean up this mess," he snapped.

He was seething. There was a rat inside Platinus. Someone had intruded in his private e-mails, targeting the communiques between him and Miller. All this coming three days after someone had hacked into Miller's CIA file. He picked up the phone and dialed Miller's cell. He picked up after five rings.

"Is it okay to talk on this phone?"
Fleming
asked.

"Yes. What do you need?"

"Have you received any updates on who was in your file at the agency?"
Fleming
asked.

"No, why?" Trey said.

"Someone was prying into my e-mails last Wednesday. They went directly to the ones you sent me. Whoever it was, they accessed my computer from inside Platinus."

Silence for a few seconds, then, "That's not good."

"No shit,"
Fleming
snapped. "Does anyone know what you're doing?"

Again, a few moments of silence. "Not that I know of. I certainly didn't tell anyone."

"We may need to take care of this,"
Fleming
said. "You mentioned Alexi in one of your e-mails. Is that who I think it is?"

"Yes," Trey answered. "Alexi was with me on the Minsk job. He's the same person."

"He has certain talents,"
Fleming
said.

The length of time it took Trey Miller to answer told
Fleming
that Miller knew exactly what he was talking about. Alexi Androv excelled at eliminating people. Violently. In fact, he enjoyed it. Which meant he was the perfect choice to remove whoever was becoming a problem.

"I told you, I don't want to be involved in that sort of thing."

"You won't be. Alexi will."

"What do you want me to do?" Miller asked after a long pause.

"Have Alexi ready to move on a moment's notice. I'll send my private jet to pick him up."

"All right, I'll mention it to him."

"Tell him to invoice me for two hundred and fifty thousand."
Fleming
knew the amount was high, almost double what he needed to pay, but he didn't want the Russian to turn it down.

"I'll do that."

"How are things going over there?"
Fleming
asked.

"Slow. The storm sewers are like a rat's nest. We're moving ahead, but it's tough slogging."

"I need this to work,"
Fleming
said.

"We'll get it done. Anything else?"

"No."

"I'll be in touch." Miller cut the connection between New York and Moscow.

Fleming
rubbed his temples to keep the blood flowing smoothly and the oncoming headache at bay. The stress was beginning to build. Business problems he could handle, but this was different. He had just discussed having someone killed, without even knowing who. It bothered him, and at the same time, exhilarated him.

Surprisingly, he liked the feeling.

Chapter

39

FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan

Russell
had never been so glad to look out and see wire surrounding him. Protecting him from the rest of the world.

The trip from Spin Buldak to the Forward Operating Base of Ma'sum ghar the previous day had been nothing short of a nightmare. The first ambush happened when the convoy of sixteen vehicles was halfway across the bridge between Kandahar Airfield and the city. The terrain created a perfect environment for the Taliban to direct an attack at the road. Cliffs towered over the bridge and the road narrowed to two thin lanes with no shoulder. There was nowhere for a disabled vehicle to pull out of the way. Nowhere to hide.

The fourth Stryker in the line took a direct hit from an RPG. It sliced off the gun turret with almost surgical precision and peppered the inside of the vehicle with razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel. They slammed into the commander's flak jacket and cut through his pants and his shirt sleeves. He screamed in agony as the hot metal tore into his flesh and muscle and snapped bones. The soldiers returned fire and peppered the ridge with small arms fire. They pinned down the location the RPG had come from and one of the men sighted in with a Javelin. The shoulder-fired missile hit the target and they followed up with a thundering grenade barrage. The gunfire stopped as the insurgents retreated. A recovery vehicle pulled onto the bridge and hooked up to the destroyed Stryker while the medical personnel worked on the injured soldier. It was almost an hour before they resumed the eighty-mile trek.

They reached Kandahar city at one in the afternoon. The streets were crowded, and getting from the east edge of the city to the west side took the better part of two hours. They exited Kandahar on the Ring Road, then cut south on Route Fosters, a secondary highway that
Andrew
James described as the most heavily mined road in the world. It had already been cleared but the lead Stryker driver stopped at each culvert and a team jumped out to check for IEDs. The Taliban had proven many times that they could slip in and plant an IED in the short time between the advance team and the convoy. It was slow going and they were under constant small arms fire from the surrounding hills. They kept the hatches on the armored vehicles closed and the inside temperature was in excess of one hundred and twenty degrees. Darkness was setting in as they pulled through the gates into the Canadian military compound.

As
Russell
was learning, the coalition forces shared things in Afghanistan. Helicopters were used by whoever needed them and were often multi-tasked. It wasn't uncommon for a chopper to take Canadian or US wounded into the city and return with fresh troops and weapons. The ISAF forces worked together. Strangers in a hostile environment. And right now, what the Canadians needed to augment their FOB was a Stryker force. Holding Ma'sum ghar and the Combat Outposts on Route Fosters was key in controlling the area. If they were to hand control of the roadways to the Taliban, everything would quickly fall apart. That was not going to happen.

The American command at Spin Buldak was reluctant to give up sixteen of its coveted armored vehicles, but the situation warranted it. The Canadians were under constant attack from insurgents on their south and west sides. To the north, things were better. A couple of miles from Ma'sum ghar was Patrol Base Wilson, manned almost entirely by US troops. From here they controlled a vital section of the Ring Road and their influence carried far enough south to ensure the Canadian FOB didn't suffer heavy attacks on their northern flank.

By ten in the morning on Monday, August 16
th
,
Russell
was up to speed on the situation. He had met a handful of Canadian soldiers and was impressed. They were well equipped, professional and friendly. And they had the best coffee he'd had since leaving Boston.
Andrew
showed up with two steaming cups of java and sat next to him on a bench overlooking the Arghand River. He handed one of the cardboard cups to
Russell
.

"Thanks,"
Russell
said. "This is good stuff."

Andrew
grinned. "Tim Hortons. It's the best there is. If you like cream and sugar, you just tell them you want a double-double. Timmy Ho's is one of the reasons we don't mind being embedded with the Canadians."

"Any other reasons?"
Russell
asked.

"Lots. The Canadian women are cute. And who wouldn't like a bunch of guys who name the roads after their favorite beer?"

"Beer?"
Russell
said.

"Sure. Route Fosters. We came in on it yesterday. It's an Australian beer. There's Route Molsons - that's Canadian - and a whack of other ones."

"Interesting."
Russell
sipped his coffee, mulling over the different ways the ISAF soldiers tried to bring some normalcy into their lives. He finished the coffee and said, "What next?"

"There's tons of stuff on the go,"
Andrew
said. "We're heading for Mushan tomorrow."

"The place you called the Wild West?"

"That's it."

"What are we doing?"

"Providing support for a resupply convoy. The Combat Outposts need food and ammo. It's a full day outside the wire with more chances to be ambushed than anywhere else in the country."

"That sounds dangerous."

"Seriously dangerous."
Andrew
stood up. "I've got stuff to do. See you later."

Russell
nodded and settled back onto the bench. The FOB was slightly higher than the surrounding ground, giving him a decent view of the adjacent countryside. North of Ma'sum ghar was the river; lifeblood to the crops and vegetation that followed its winding path through the rocky wasteland of southern Afghanistan. Without water, there was nothing but rocks and sand. A desolate wilderness where the Afghan people somehow had managed to carve out an existence for centuries. An old Afghan proverb came to mind, one that had been told many times to the long list of invaders who had tried unsuccessfully to conquer the country.

You may have the watch, but we have the time.

Russell
had seen resistance to invasion in many different forms. In the case of the Afghans, it was best to fight their battles with patience. Why try to outgun your foe when you can simply outlast him? Afghans were tied to a country with strategic military importance. The piece of rock that was constantly being overrun, then ignored. He felt for the people, torn apart by thirty years of war. The ground was inundated with landmines and unexploded shells, and the Taliban moved about freely, focused only on the power and wealth from the opium and heroin trade.

Stem the corruption. Education.
Pacha Khan Zadran's words floated back to him on the hot, desert air. The answers were so simple, yet so difficult to provide.

He stood and stretched. Tomorrow they were leaving the safety of the FOB. Heading into the most dangerous part of the country. This was why he left Boston. To be on the edge and taste the dust and feel the fear. To see what the soldiers and the civilians see, and then show the world.

He was ready.