Out of Range: A Novel (26 page)

Chapter Fifty

S
ir. It’s him.”

The comms tech pointed at the phone on Frank Hopkins’s workstation in the front of the War Room.

Hopkins snatched it up. “Davis?”

“She’s still alive!” Davis said, his voice almost rising to a shout. “She’s with Byko. They were at the command facility of the Vasilevsky Missile Complex. There are two tunnels leading out of the facility here. One is a road. I’m pretty sure it leads to the bathhouse. No way he’s going back there because he knows the location is blown. But there’s a second tunnel with a railway track. I think they somehow loaded the cars onto the track and took them somewhere.”

Hopkins rubbed his face, letting the burst of information settle into his brain. “Wait a moment, Mr. Davis, just . . . slow down, will you? How do you know all of this?”

Hopkins listened in wonderment as Davis explained that he’d broken into the missile complex with a team of hired guns, that he’d subdued a skeleton crew of Byko’s men, that he’d found Byko’s computer, rigged with explosives and that he’d managed to get some information off of it before Byko remotely detonated the equipment. Davis closed his story insisting that Byko had gotten away through the tunnels with Julie . . . “I know you must have maps or something,” Davis said. “Figure out where that train comes out and you’ll have a chance of catching up to him. I’m assuming the SAS is en route as we speak.”

“Hold,” Hopkins said. He cupped his hand over the receiver and called to his comms tech, “Get Eric Nielsen on the line.”

“Let me guess,” Davis said. “Karimov’s giving you problems?”

“We’re in the process of trying to straighten that out.” Hopkins cleared his throat. He rebelled at the notion of giving sensitive details of the operation to a civilian. On the other hand Davis had already proved himself to be quite an asset. The comms tech signaled to Hopkins that he had his NSA counterpart on the phone. “Hold the line again, please.”

Hopkins quickly explained to Eric Nielsen that they suspected Byko had used some kind of underground train to dodge the birds.

“Jesus,” Nielsen said. “There’s a narrow-gauge rail underground. It was intended for transporting missiles from one silo to the next.”

“Do your maps show any logical place where they’d be able to stop the train, unload the cars and then take off again on surface roads?”

“Give me a second,” Nielsen said. Hopkins heard him conduct a hushed conversation with an assistant in the background. Then he came back on the line. “As far as we know, there are only two places that have access to surface roads from the train. There’s a terminus at the command center and another at the last stop on the line, Silo Thirty-nine. All the other stops just lead to subterranean silo service bays. No direct contact with surface roads. I can give you the GPS coordinates.”

“Can you put a bird on it and route us the visuals? We’ll keep TopSat on its current location just in case.”

“I’m on it.”

Hopkins rang off, then pulled up the line where Davis was holding.

“You said you found Byko’s computer?”

“That’s right. And I think you might have the wrong target cities . . .”

Davis went on to explain that the information he’d gleaned from the computers implied that Byko had expected Western intelligence agencies to track the nuclear-material shipments. As a result, he’d sent the material to decoy cities. And he’d chosen his decoys well—Berlin, Boston, Stockholm—cities that seemed like perfect targets.

Hopkins shook his head. If what Davis had just told him was true, then MI6 had been barking up the wrong tree for months.

“Mr. Davis, I trust you won’t be insulted if I express a certain skepticism about your story.”

“I took photographs of all of the files. Give me an email address and you can look at them yourself in three minutes.”

Hopkins held his breath for a moment. This bloody scribbler had just built his own private mini-army, attacked a hardened facility, killed off half a dozen trained operatives, infiltrated Byko’s security apparatus and come away with hard evidence.

He gave the man a secure email address.

Ninety seconds later, Hopkins was leaning over the shoulder of the comms specialist, surfing through the information. Not only was Davis correct in his assessment about the target cities, but there was information here that could lead them to the cells in each of those cities. Shipping manifests, credit card statements, bank transfers, an odd cell phone bill or two—even an operation trying its best to remain hidden left ghost footprints everywhere. And perhaps it was Byko’s obsessiveness, his impulse to micromanage and control, along with his businessman’s bias toward record keeping, that had led him to centralize what little information was available about the comings and goings of his terrorist cells.

Hopkins didn’t have exact locations for the cells or their safe houses, but there were intimations about their codes and communications patterns and tangential evidence that would clearly point MI6 in the right direction.

Hopkins only hoped it wasn’t too late. The anniversary of Andijan was tomorrow and tomorrow began in roughly thirteen hours. The intelligence agencies would have to be notified that all of the target cities were wrong—security units in Melbourne would have to be moved to Sydney, Osaka to Tokyo, Berlin to Hanover. The French would have to be told to stand down while the Austrians would have to be alerted. Same with the Swedes and the Danes now that he knew Stockholm was the decoy and Copenhagen the real target. And finding the members of those terrorist cells in such a short time—with most of them hiding in safe houses, preparing for the attack—would be beyond difficult. They might be able to get to some of them, to stop some of the attacks, but without knowing the actual targets in these nine cities, they were still in deep trouble.

The big screen at the front of the room blinked and a satellite image flashed across it. Hopkins couldn’t help but feel a sense of envy at the clarity and detail of the image. The bloody Americans—all their gear was so much better than anything MI6 could afford.

Hopkins stared at the screen, orienting himself. The image appeared to be nothing more than a large empty parking lot. Then he saw several human figures emerging from what must have been a ramp from some underground structure, its entrance half concealed because of the high angle of the bird’s view. Even with the superior quality of the American bird, it was impossible to make out faces. But it was clear that several of the men were carrying assault rifles.

Hopkins jumped back on the phone and briefly sketched what he saw to Davis.

Suddenly the analyst stabbed his finger at the screen. “That’s him! That’s Byko.”

The analyst pointed at a white figure at the center of a number of darker-clothed figures. “Notice how he’s giving all the orders? Pointing, gesturing. And everyone else is responding to him. Then there’s the distinctive dress. This man is wearing a Western-made suit of a light-colored fabric. Everybody else is either wearing black suits or plate carrier vests and baseball caps. The black suits are his personal bodyguards and the guys with the plate carriers and baseball caps are mercenaries commanded by John Quinn.”

“Okay,” Hopkins said to Charlie on the phone, “it appears you were right. Byko is just leaving Silo Thirty-nine.”

“What about Julie?” Davis demanded.

Hopkins gave the analyst a quizzical glance. The analyst, who was listening to Davis on a pair of headphones, shook his head.

“Not yet,” Hopkins said.

As they watched, five vehicles nosed out of the exit from the bunker.

The analyst watched closely. “Escalade, Escalade, Toyota Land Cruiser . . . no, sorry, wait, that’s a Mercedes G series, another Escalade, another G series . . .” He nodded. “Right, these are the usual vehicles in Byko’s convoy. Look how this one rides heavier. That’s Byko’s personal car. Very heavily armored. It’s quite distinctive, as you can see.”

Hopkins could see no such thing. But the analyst knew his business.

“Right, now they’re getting into the vehicle. They’re . . . wait, Byko’s walking back down into the bunker. Okay, okay, he’s gone now . . .” After a moment the white-clothed figure came back, striding confidently toward one of the SUVs. “Ah! He’s back. Now he’s in the Escalade.”

Another figure emerged from the underground ramp, this one being pushed or perhaps even carried by two larger men.

“Wait! That’s a woman. See the hair? Western clothes, slim build . . .” The analyst looked at Hopkins and smiled. “That’s Julie Davis.”

The woman was quickly transferred to Byko’s car and the door slammed shut. Then the convoy began to move.

“We’ve got her, Mr. Davis,” Hopkins said into the phone. “She’s going with Byko.”

C
harlie’s heart was vibrating with excitement.

“You see her? You’re
sure
?”

“Absolutely,” Hopkins said. “Byko’s convoy is in motion. Dirt road. Bloody great plume of dust. It’s getting too dark to see . . .” Hopkins’s voice changed as he issued an order to somebody in the room with him. “Switch to thermal and decrease magnification.”

Charlie waited nervously. He could hear a bustle of activity behind Hopkins, bits and snatches of shouted comments and commands.

“Where are they going?” Hopkins asked someone in the room.

Charlie couldn’t hear an answer.

“Map, please,” Hopkins said.

Charlie heard a muffled shout by a female voice. “He’s making a break for it! Holy Christ, he’s heading for . . .” But Charlie couldn’t make out the destination.

“What’s going on?” Charlie asked. “Where’s he taking her?”

“They’re on the A376,” Hopkins said. “They’re heading for Tajikistan.”

In a flash, Charlie knew where they were going. “There’s a town there,” he told Hopkins. “An old town just over the border that Byko’s father used to own. I think there may even be a landing strip and a couple of planes.”

“Yes, yes, we know it,” Hopkins replied. “Just east of Kokon on the A386 . . .” He paused, presumably studying a map. “Konibodom.”

“That’s the one,” Charlie said.

“Look, we’ve got an entire company of SAS lads en route to Uzbekistan. We’ll simply re-task them to Tajikistan and set up an ambush. We’ll take him down the moment he crosses the border. I can’t tell you how grateful we are to you, Mr. Davis. But I really must get back to work. I’ll call you the moment we have Julie in hand.”

And the line went dead.

Charlie stared at his phone for a long moment. The screen winked off and he gazed into the semidarkness, feeling oddly numb. The sky was growing black now and the wind bit into his skin. Salim sat on a curb a few feet away, resting his wounded leg, his clothes rattling and rustling in the frigid breeze.

Charlie should have felt encouraged. This was what he’d wanted all along. But when he thought about the reality of a military ambush on Byko’s heavily armed contingent . . .

Charlie had seen Byko up close and there was simply no way that he would allow himself to be taken alive. And Quinn, those mercenaries—he just didn’t see them throwing up their hands and walking placidly toward a lifetime in prison.

How could Julie avoid getting caught in the cross fire? How would an SAS team possibly protect her?

The answer was . . . they couldn’t.

Chapter Fifty-one

C
harlie drove in silence for almost an hour, first down the dirt road from the command center, then on the highway. He was exhausted and famished and despondent. And Salim seemed to recognize it.

“Would you like me to drive?” the kid asked.

Charlie slowed and pulled off onto the dark shoulder of the road. Uzbek highways were never that busy, but at this time of night there was not a single headlight in view. As Charlie got out of the car and leaned against the trunk, he realized he had been driving aimlessly down the highway, no particular destination in mind. He pulled out his phone, not expecting to find any signal available. To his surprise, the screen showed three bars.

Charlie dialed home. Becca answered.

“Hello?”

“I lost her,” Charlie said. “I was so close. But I lost her.”

“Oh, Charlie . . .” Becca’s voice was thin, distant. “Is she . . . ?”

“No. But it doesn’t look good. I know I shouldn’t be telling you that, I . . .” He didn’t know what to say or why he was saying it to her. “She’s the only woman I ever loved.”

He could hear Becca crying, then manage to gather herself. “She loves you, Charlie. No matter what happened . . . you know she loves you.”

He stared out into the blackness. He supposed he was parked at the edge of a cotton field, but there was no way to know for sure. No moon, no street lamps, not a farmhouse or a car in sight. Just utter darkness. He had never felt so alone, so empty, so defeated.

In the background Charlie heard Meagan’s joyful voice. “Daddy! Daddy! Is that Daddy? I wanna talk to Daddy!”

The sound of her voice cut through Charlie’s despair. “Put her on,” he said.

“Hi!” Meagan shouted.

Charlie wiped his face with the back of his arm and tried to steady his voice. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Are you coming home soon?”

Charlie’s heart felt like it would wrench itself out of his chest. “Yeah, sweetie, I am. Real soon.”

“We’re having a cake tomorrow. For Ollie’s birthday.”

Ollie’s birthday. Jesus, he’d almost forgotten. It seemed like something from another life. “I know. I’m going to try to make it home for that . . . I’m really gonna . . .” Charlie’s voice trailed off.

As he stared out into the blackness, something struck him. He stood and looked at Salim, standing there on his one good leg, leaning against the driver’s side of the car.

“Daddy?”

“Sweetheart, I gotta go,” Charlie said, his voice suddenly urgent. “I gotta call you back later, okay? I love you. Tell Ollie I love him, too.”

“Bye!” Meagan’s voice was cheerfully oblivious.

Charlie came around the car, close to Salim. “The rally in Andijan—who organized it?”

Salim shrugged. “Nobody knows. The word just spread.”

That was exactly the answer Charlie wanted to hear.

Something had been tugging at his mind. It was what Byko had said to him on the phone a few hours ago.

Always with the squares
.
It seems that is our destiny.

Charlie reached past Salim and opened the car door. “I’m driving.” He hopped in and fired up the motor as Salim circled around and got back in the passenger seat. Charlie thumbed Hopkins’s number as he pulled onto the highway again.

“Hopkins!” Charlie could hear a loud engine whine in the background. It sounded as though Hopkins was inside a chopper.

“What is it?” Hopkins had to shout to be heard over the sound of the engine.

“There’s going to be a major demonstration in Andijan tomorrow. Commemorating the massacre.”

“And?”

“It can’t be a coincidence. Byko’s going to be there!”

“No, Mr. Davis, he’s not. I already told you—”

“Listen! It doesn’t make sense. It’s been
six years
and there’s never been any kind of ceremony. Not so much as a couple of old ladies lighting candles. I’m telling you, Byko organized this demonstration himself. And that’s why he’s keeping Julie alive. He wants to take her there. To show her. So everything comes full circle in some way.”

“Maybe he did organize it, Mr. Davis. Maybe he even intended being there. But now you’ve been chasing him around the country, his cover’s blown—he’s going underground.”

“And you’re sure it was him on the satellite?”

“We’re tracking his every move. He’s still heading straight for Tajikistan and I’m going to be there personally to supervise the SAS ambush. I promise you, if Julie is there, I’ll do everything I can to make sure she walks away safely.” The jet engine was rising in pitch. “Now do yourself a favor. Get to the capital, sit tight and wait to hear from us. I have to go now.”

The phone clicked.

Salim looked at Charlie as a road sign swam up in front of them.

Tashkent 130 km

Get to the capital, sit tight.

Charlie had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. After all of this, was he really going to check into the Radisson and wait to hear from Hopkins?

He thought of everything that had happened in Andijan six years ago, everything that he’d been through, how much of his life had been structured as a reaction to the tragedy there.

Tashkent: 130 kilometers.

Safety.

No
, Charlie heard himself say.
Some things are written
.

One way or another, he had to return to Andijan.

Charlie blew past the exit for Tashkent and pressed his foot to the accelerator. If he drove straight through, they would be at the rally by sunrise.