One Child (29 page)

Chapter

52

Soho, New York

Androv was in no hurry. He preferred that his victims have time to eat before his visit. Food slowed response times and every second counted. Even amateurs could be dangerous. Perhaps even more so because they were unpredictable.

Forty minutes after Grant arrived home from work, Androv strolled across the street and let himself into the building. He took the stairs to the third floor and waited by the door for a minute, listening for activity. Music, the television, pots clanging - anything that would tell him what
Carson
and his fiancee were doing. Where they were in the apartment.

Nothing.

He inserted the lock-picking tools and aligned the tumblers. A slight pressure on the door and it silently swung open. The knife appeared in his hand and he moved through the foyer into the living room. Empty. His grip tightened on the hilt as he rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen. There were pots on and beside the stove, dishes laid out on the counter, but no people. He continued on to the hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom. They must have decided to have a nap before supper. Or sex. He grinned at the thought of killing them when they were naked.

His feet were soft on the floorboards as he approached the closed door. He set his palm flat against the wood and pushed hard. The door flew open and he rushed the bed. Then stopped. It was empty. He checked the closet and under the bed, then the bathroom. A quick look in the hall closet confirmed his suspicions.

Carson
Grant and the woman had fled.

He touched a pot on the stove, feeling warmth in the metal. They hadn't been gone for long. The escape routes from the aging apartment building were limited, only one exit to the front and the fire exit in the rear. He had relied on that detail to ensure he would see them if they tried to leave. It was no accident that they had slipped by him. Leaving by using the fire escape was not an option unless they wanted to get out without being seen. Somehow, they knew he was watching. He briefly wondered how, but filed that thought in the deal-with-it-later envelope.

Androv scoured the apartment for any sign of where they might have gone. He checked the phone for the last incoming and outgoing numbers, and jotted them down. A search of the kitchen drawers netted him a stack of bills. He rifled through them, taking a copy of their monthly cell phone bill and the most recent bank statements. Conspicuously missing, although he might not have found their hiding place, were passports and money. He powered up their laptop and clicked on their contact list. He created a file, inserted a flash drive into one of the USB ports and downloaded it. There was nothing else readily accessible on the computer and he shut it off and snapped the lid closed. He took one last look about the apartment, then let himself out and locked the door.

Once on the street and moving with the pedestrian traffic, he dialed Miller's cell number. He calculated the time difference between New York and Moscow - seven o'clock Friday evening on the eastern seaboard was 3:00 am in Moscow. Trey would likely be pissed at being woken.

"That was quick," Trey said. His voice was groggy, like his head was in a fog.

"My name isn't supposed to appear on call display," Alexi said.

Trey yawned. "I have a very smart phone. How are things?"

"Not good. They got away."

A long stretch of dead air, then, "So what are you going to do about it? You need to find them."

"
We
need to," Alexi said. "You have a lot more resources than I do."

"Resources that I don't like using," Trey snapped. "
You
fucked up. Why don't
you
call in some favors. I don't see how this is my problem."

"Just find them, Trey. I'll take care of the rest."

"Where are you?" Miller asked.

"New York. A couple of blocks from their apartment. They know I'm here. I was waiting outside their building and they used the fire escape at the back and disappeared."

"Maybe they're still in the building. Visiting friends in another suite."

"I read the file. The woman has cystic fibrosis. I was in the apartment earlier in the day scoping things out and there was medicine on the bathroom vanity. When I went back, it was gone."

"Okay."

Alexi remained quiet while silence dominated the international phone line. He knew exactly what Trey was doing. Assessing the damage and deciding on whether to cut his killer loose or hold onto him and try to find the target. Figuring out how pissed off
Fleming
would be if he found out Grant had escaped. Deciding whether to fly to America and take care of things himself.

"All right, Alexi," Trey said. "I'll try to find him for you."

"You can call me on this number when you do. I won't miss twice."

"I'm sure you won't," Trey said. He ended the call.

Alexi pocketed his phone and returned to the Audi. He slipped into the back seat and asked the driver to take him to Times Square. Since he was in New York, and probably would be for the night, he might as well check out a Broadway play.

Chapter

53

Peshawar, Pakistan

Tabraiz was apprehensive about the trip to Kandahar. Something about it felt wrong.

He contemplated not going, but the financial rewards were too great. Fifty-five thousand dollars was a small fortune for one quick jaunt into Afghanistan. Today was Saturday and he had a flight booked for Kabul. He had arranged for a driver to take him south to Kandahar on Sunday. His accommodation in the city was in place and Kunar had the meeting with Kadir and Halima set for dusk on Monday. Everything as it should be. Everything perfect.

Afghanistan worried him. The country was fractured and dangerous. The Afghan National Police were beginning to function as a cohesive force and they were now a threat to him. The days of paying the police to look the other way were lessening. Corruption was still endemic, but change was happening, and those changes were not going to work to his advantage. He was done with Afghanistan. This was his last deal.

Tabraiz slid out of bed, the tile floor cool on his feet. It was good to be back in his house. He liked the Khan Klub, it was an elegant and safe place to stay when he returned to Peshawar from his business trips, but it wasn't home. This was. Five thousand square feet of marble and stone with Persian tapestries and carpets adorning the walls and floors. Three-meter-high walls surrounding the house and gardens kept the undesirables out. Trafficking in human beings was a lucrative trade, and he was good at it.

Halima was a jewel. She was a snapshot of everything good in a country that had been laid to waste by a long trail of invaders. Her heart and her body were pure and she was full of life. The plight of her city had not disheartened her. Not yet, at least. It would happen eventually, Tabraiz thought. The country, the city, the people - were dominated by whatever or whoever was holding court in Kabul. It didn't matter if it was the Russians or the Taliban or even the Afghans themselves - the men in power were like jackals, picking the flesh off the bones. Leaving nothing of value for the villagers who spent their lives eking out a meager existence from the harsh, dry land.

She would be rid of the dust and the hopelessness soon. Her life was about to change, and while it would be a difficult transition, Halima stood a chance of carving out a decent life in the United Arab Emirates. A small chance, but one nonetheless. She had no future in Kandahar. School was a dream that would never happen. Her father was a man of no means with a useless hand. He could offer her nothing. At least when she was in the UAE she would be fed and kept warm.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It pounded against his skin, tiny darts of energy that invigorated and empowered him. He imagined Halima's life with her new owner. At his beck and call every moment of every day. The man forcing himself on her. And when he was finished...

When he was washed and had tired of the sensation of the water, Tabraiz quit the shower and toweled off. It wasn't his place to judge people. There were many whose opinion of him would be harsh. He understood there was the possibility that Halima might die at her keeper's hand. Perhaps she would be sold into industrial slavery in India or Pakistan. The child's future was in the stars, not in his hands. If he didn't take advantage of her, someone else would. Or she would fade into nothing, left to the life she had now. What he did, or didn't do, held no importance.

He dressed and checked the mirror. Stylish, but not flashy. After all, it was Kabul he was flying into, not New York. He slipped on his shoes and left the house. The game was on. There was a young girl to be sold.

* * *

Orsha, Belarus

Trey sat in his rental car, watching the traffic pull in and out of the fueling station in the center of the motorway. The semi carrying the backup generator would be getting low on diesel, and the driver would want to be sure he had plenty of fuel before heading into Russia. It was simply a matter of patience.

He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. There were flights from Orsha to Minsk every hour on the regional carrier, and his return flight to Moscow wasn't leaving Minsk until nine o'clock that night. Plenty of time to disable the truck's motor and make his flight, providing the truck was on schedule. If it wasn't, he'd simply book another flight. He continued to scan the trucks coming and going from the station. There was no marking on the truck to link it to U2, but he had seen a picture of it on the union website. It had a unique logo on the side and he'd know it when it arrived.

He preferred not to spend any more time in Belarus than was absolutely necessary. The issue with Alexi missing Grant in New York was troubling.
Fleming
was going to be pissed. And he had enough on the go right now without having to help Alexi find Grant. Incompetence irritated him. Not that he was going to be the one who told Alexi that he had screwed up. The man was a borderline psychotic.

He ventured out of his car and into the rest stop. Families in cars on summer vacations. Truckers fueling up. Businessmen driving to appointments in other cities and towns. Normal lives. All except him. No one else was hanging around waiting to sabotage a truck.
What a strange life you lead
, he thought as he exited the confection building and walked back to his car with a bottle of water and a chocolate bar. A truck pulled in and cruised past him. He recognized the markings. The backup generator had shown up.

He returned to his car and watched the driver fill the tanks. The man jumped up into the cab, pulled the unit in with the other parked semis and headed in for some lunch. Trey waited until he was sure the man hadn't forgotten something, then strolled over to the truck. It was parked between two similar trucks, which obscured any possible view from the restaurant. He opened the hood and found the housing for the main computer chip. He pried it open and pulled out the chip, then used a needle to make tiny, almost invisible lacerations in the processor. He replaced it, closed the housing and the hood and walked back to his car. He waited until the driver was finished lunch and came back and tried to start the truck. The moment Trey saw the driver get out and lift the hood, he pulled onto the motorway. That truck wasn't moving for a while.

Chapter

54

FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan

"Do you feel like another adventure?"

Russell
looked up from his computer and shielded his eyes with his hand. The figure was backlit by the morning sun and he couldn't see the man's features, but he knew
Andrew
's voice.

"Maybe. What do you have in mind?"

Andrew
shifted to the side and sat in a folding chair next to the journalist. "Today's Saturday. We're heading out tomorrow. This is a good one." The specialist leaned back in the chair, an unlit cigarette in his hand. "Could be a good story."

"What about?"

"We're putting together a big push on one of the Taliban strongholds north of Kandahar. It's calledKneh Gerd."

"Nice place?"
Russell
asked.

"Yup, a real shit hole. You'll like it. It'll be great for filming."

Russell
glanced again at the e-mail that had come in from Anita Greenwall about twenty minutes ago. He saved it to a Word file, and closed it. "My network contact in Boston likes the footage from outside the wire," he said. "She said it's very raw. Very real."

"Well, man, it is real. This is what happens over here. They try to kill us and we try to kill them."

Russell
shook his head. "This is me you're talking to,
Andrew
. You know that's not the way it is. Save the cliches for someone else."

Andrew
's face changed. Darkened. He thought about his next words carefully. "You think I like killing them? You think for a minute that I wanted to kill that Talib in Dabarey?"

"No,"
Russell
answered.

"No, I didn't want to. I hate it. It sucks. Whoever that guy was, he had a family. A mother, a father, sisters, brothers. He got mixed up with a bunch of drug dealers and look what happened. He got his face shot off."

"It was you or him,"
Russell
said.

"It didn't have to be. There's other ways to resolve this mess."

Russell
tilted his head and lowered an eyebrow. "Are you saying the ISAF troops shouldn't be here?"

Andrew
shook his head vigorously. "No, man, I'm not saying that at all. We need to be here. But we have to fix things, not blow them up. And that's going to take time. Right now, the mission is to control the situation and get the Taliban out. It's when they're gone that they really need us."

"To rebuild,"
Russell
said.

"Yeah, exactly. The schools, the medical clinics, all that."

"I talked about that in my last report. I said we wanted to help them change things. Lots of people watch the news,
Andrew
. They saw the pictures, heard the words. It makes a difference, me being here."

"I never said it didn't." He stood up and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here,
Russell
. I like you and I like what you're doing. Just be ready for tomorrow. It's going to be crazy."

"I'll be ready,"
Russell
said, tapping the camera bag next to him. "I have my weapon right here."

He watched the soldier walk away, then opened the file that contained the e-mail from Anita Greenwall in Boston. He read it again.

Russell
- here's the info on
Andrew
Malcolm James, Specialist, 5th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division currently deployed in the Kandahar region of Afghanistan. I think it's the same guy, but his story is different from the one he gave you.

He's from Pismo Beach, California, but his family background is pretty sketchy. It doesn't jibe with what you gave me. His mother was a crack addict who was constantly in trouble with the local police. She was busted six times for possession and did time for possession with intent to traffic. She dabbled in prostitution but the cops never charged her.

His father is worse. He had some questionable business dealings and ended up owing his "associates" a few thousand dollars. They caught up to him outside a tire store and shot him twenty-one times. No witnesses, at least no one willing to speak up against the shooters.

Andrew
was in and out of foster homes, but he always kept his marks up in school. He graduated with honors and went straight into the military.

Take care over there and keep sending the stories. They are great.

Anita.

He closed the file and shut down his computer. Why was no one who they said they were?
Andrew
James ran when he graduated. To a place where the men and women fighting next to him didn't question his back-story. Where he could be whoever he wanted, and be judged on what he was capable of now. Not surprisingly, his version of his life before the army was a warped variation of the truth. His father didn't own a chain of tire stores - he was gunned down in a parking lot next to a tire outlet. His mother was a drug addict. Now
Andrew
was in Afghanistan killing drug dealers. Christ, the irony of it all.

Russell
packed up his computer and his camera bag and slung them over his shoulder. Time to head back outside the wire. If
Andrew
was right - and he probably was - this one was going to be a test.