Recall (10 page)

Crawler pointed his thumb over a shoulder and said, “Someone needs to screen that guy for 'roids.”

No sooner had Red dropped his gear than Jim stepped into the dim room. Holding up his fingers, he said, “Briefing in two!” He winked at Red. “Intel says they know where Lori's at.”

The coffin lid hinged open and white light filled Lori's eyes, blinding her. After they adjusted, she realized she was outside. The sky was overcast, as best she could tell through slit eyelids. A cool breeze chilled her cheek and brought a faint smell of pine. A man with a toothless grin peered in. His face was tanned, weather beaten as a sailor's, and a sweat-stained Orioles baseball cap was pulled low over his head. The asshole with the German accent gazed in over that one's shoulder, then wrinkled his nose and turned away. “She stinks of
pisse
.”

They switched to Farsi. Her comprehension was spotty, but she made it out.

“Get her cleaned up. I can't deliver her like this.”

“Where?”

“The outhouse. It has a sink.”

With a bent finishing nail they jimmied the cuffs from her hands and feet. Cheap pricks didn't even have keys. Then they pulled out the gag, peeling away what seemed like an entire layer of skin from her lips that had dried to it. Her jaw ached as she tried to close it, dribbling drool on her neck. As she moved it side to side, her eyes watered at the pain. They shoved her into a cramped corrugated metal outhouse with a rusted enamel steel sink and a hole in the floor. She tried to punch the toothless man when he grabbed a breast, shoving her into the stinking box. As he raised his hand in retaliation the German gripped a spot near his collarbone.

“Basseh!”
Toothless gasped.

“Worth twenty of you,
scheisskopf
. Slit your throat and sell your daughter as a whore in Thailand if you touch her again.”

To Lori, he said in English, “Don't. Or I'll let him have his way. Now, clean yourself up.”

He handed her a bottle of Dasani and shut the door. Much of it dribbled out her mouth as she drank. She couldn't make her jaw do what she wanted. Where were they? The trafficker spoke in Farsi, so maybe Iran? As she squatted to pee, she peered through a bullet hole in the wall. The outhouse stood next to a dilapidated mechanic's shop with the dented front of a Cessna 210 protruding from it, turbo charger hanging on by the waste gate tube.

Her legs threatened to collapse as she braced on the wall, hovering over the hole in the floor. She rinsed her stinking pajamas in rusty water from the sink, then slipped them back on, shivering in the sodden, cold flannel. They tied her hands with jute rope and thrust her, standing, into a tall wood crate that smelled like tar. She could turn around but didn't have room to sit. Still, a refreshing change from the coffin.

Cold but fresh air swept in through gaps between plank sides. The German and his helper lifted the crate into the bed of a troop transport, something like a deuce and a half, as best as she could see through the cracks. Over it they tossed a musty green canvas tarp that reeked of mold.

After at least an hour of driving, the tires sounded upon loose gravel.

Secondary road. The primary hadn't been full of potholes. It was afternoon and they were headed east, judging by the shadows she glimpsed through wide cracks in the truck's bed. They jostled along for another half hour, then the road became furiously rough. She heard only two vehicles pass, going in the opposite direction. A few minutes and they pulled off, then backed up. The rear wheels bounced over something—a speed bump? A ditch? Then the front. All light disappeared with the screech of dry bearings. The truck's engine stopped.

The German broke the crate open and led her out. Toothless wasn't around anymore. The truck was inside a warehouse in front of a silver galvanized overhead door like you'd see at a mechanic's garage. She turned her head, but he put a bag over it. She smelled a creek, like in New Hampshire when Tony took her fly-fishing, but the scent blew past. He led her along a concrete floor, all she could see past her chin where the bag hung loosely. A strong hand gripped her shoulder, but she ran into the sharp corner of something anyway, rasping her hip. Occasionally, she saw what looked like the bottom edge of a wooden crate lining her path. They paused at the top of stairs, then walked down several flights. It took forever, her stumbling and being jerked upright.

She splashed into a puddle and prepared to step down once more, but it was all flat. She felt ahead with her toes, but the hand shoved her from behind. “Move!” The German.

She ran into a doorjamb twice, hard enough to bruise her shoulder. The German yanked the bag off. He shoved her backwards and she tripped, falling to sit in a metal folding chair. He pulled a large black knife from its scabbard on his hip and held it in front of her chest. Looking down, he smiled and swept his oily black hair behind his ear, then wrinkled his nose again. He slipped the blade between her wrists and cut the rope, then walked out and locked a blue steel door behind him.

A single lightbulb hung from two wires in the middle of the empty, windowless room. Yet, this didn't look like it was meant to be a prison. Some muffled voices spoke outside the door. She cupped her hands around her ear and pressed against it.

“Transport was more,” said the German. “Your British friend demanded fifty thousand euro. My fee didn't include additional bribes.”

“I know,” came a reply. “I told you who to use and I'd pay you whatever he required. We've done business before. He's like you. Invisible . . . till next time.”

The heavy sound of booted feet walking upstairs. Then, silence.

She slunk back into the chair. Cold metal chilled through the damp flannel PJs. Her head bent low as she rubbed her legs. Tony always said flannel PJs were why they only had three kids. She grinned and swore to herself she'd get an entire wardrobe of silk when she got back and . . . Who was she fooling? Chances were she'd never make it.
Bait
. Tony'd get caught in it, too. The kids would grow up and eventually forget her. She put her head between her knees, closed her eyes, and concentrated on breathing slowly. Then she fell forward and retched, but the only thing that wet the floor was her tears.

* * *

Red clamped a hand onto his knee, keeping his leg from bouncing as he sat waiting for the rest of the team. The cramped briefing room next to berthing was concrete block with empty walls and contained only folding metal chairs, a laptop, an overhead projector, a blackened document incinerator the size of a small woodstove, and a skinny geek with Ben Franklin glasses.

“What's taking so long?” he asked.

The geek rubbed his hands as the team filed in. Sergeant Crawler hissed as he squeezed his ass against the side bars of one chair, unable to scooch back completely into the seat. Its legs creaked in protest.

Jim stood at the front of the room like a schoolteacher, facing them. His eyes sagged, the whites displaying more of a pink tone, but he stood erect. He was always at his best before an op. Tired, but in charge. A one-sided smile as he lifted an eight-by-ten in the air. “This is a seize-and-extract operation. We believe Lori Harmon is being held in Iran, in Saidabad, east of Tehran. In this warehouse.”

The geek walked down the line, handing everyone manila folders. Red tore into his. It contained several photos, including the one Jim was holding. Jim had always liked print better than digital. The incinerator meant no paper left the room.

The first was a satellite image of an old brick warehouse with a weathered steel roof. Judging by a truck parked close by, it was about a hundred feet wide and two hundred long. The other photos displayed the same warehouse from several ground-level angles. All clear, high-quality shots.

Red waved one of the pictures at Jim. “How do we know she's here?”

“Humint. Analysis of the video with the blotched-out face didn't turn up anything. We put word out to our co-ops about what we were looking for. Mossad and CIA came back aiming at VEVAK.” Jim pointed to the geek. “Gerry, help me out.”

Gerry pushed his glasses further up a long nose and patted a folder against his chest. The white flesh of his neck was cinched in a blue Polo buttoned all the way up. His voice sounded as if his nose was a resonance chamber. “VEVAK's a perverted Iranian CIA. Intelligence and secret service and Mafia all in one.”

“Not too much different, then,” Crawler said, winking at Marksman.

Gerry stared blankly, then said, “Our first source was humint inside Iran, through Mossad. They won't divulge source details, but they're usually precise. Just like the colonel said, the second one was CIA. Intercept from a cell in the U.S. Placed to a VEVAK coordinator. It was thirty minutes after Lori's kidnap.” He shrugged. “The intercept was scrambled, but they confirmed it went to VEVAK.”

Dr. Ali leaned forward in his chair. “So we're basing this op on an unknown Israeli asset in Iran, confirmed only by a scrambled phone intercept placed to a VEVAK coordinator?”

“What the hell else you want?” Red snapped, half-rising from his chair.

Jim held up a hand. “If VEVAK was behind the kidnap, they wouldn't keep her in the U.S. Plus, their arms don't reach here. It had to be hired out. If so, they'd require the mercs to bring the hostages back home, no delays.

“Based on the timeframe, four aircraft that left the East Coast early Monday morning were possibilities. We narrowed it down to two—one from Philadelphia and one from Newport News. Our co-op at CIA suggested they'd be cargo, not passenger. The one from Newport News was owned by Aero Global.”

Gerry pinched his index fingers, as if counting. “Aero Global is a front. They've been on everyone's watch list for years. Their board's controlled by members who aren't Iranian, but they've got oil interests and are generous to Shi'a organizations.”

Crawler shrugged. “What's wrong with that?”

Jim snorted. “Terrorists, Crawler. They're financing terrorists.”

Crawler pointed his cigar at Gerry. “Why din't he say so?”

“He did. Just not in Neanderthal.”

Gerry rocked from his toes to heels. “Our co-ops at U.S. Customs have nothing.” He pointed at Carter and smiled. “He shook the trees at Homeland Security. In ten minutes, we had the manifest in our hands. The plane was headed to London with some billionaire's dressage horse and a couple other exotic animals. At the last minute the crew accepted an order to deliver ten coffins. Destination, UK. We're thinking that's how Lori was smuggled out.”

Red winced. “In a coffin?” His face grew hot.

“Yep,” Jim said. “The plane went Newport News to London, to Jinnah in Pakistan, then to Tehran. By the time we had the lead on Global Aero, they'd already taken off for Tehran. All we could do was ask Mossad for a favor. Space Command couldn't task a satellite, the cloud cover was too damn heavy or some other bullshit. Mossad photoed the cargo being moved to a warehouse close to the airport. Except one crate. It went to a known VEVAK location, the safe house in these.” Jim tapped his manila envelope. “Not certain this is where she is, but it's a damn good guess. We've submitted the op plan to higher. We've got the green light, pending confirmation from Mossad. Then it's wheels up as early as 0600.”

Red stood and paced to the back of the room. “Let's go now. Get approval en route. Iran's twelve hours away. They might move her.”

“Mossad's intel has been heavy on the op plan. They're also helping on the exfil. They're using Iranian assets and don't want to pull the trigger till they can confirm. That's the way it is.”

Red clenched his fists. “Wouldn't hurt to be on the way. We'd be that much closer.”

“Too much at stake if we're wrong.”

“Damn it! We've got—”

“Break. Be back in five,” Jim snapped, pursing his lips. “Not you.” He pointed a finger at Red.

The team filed out. Gerry stayed behind, shuffling papers on a table. “See you back in five,” Jim said, almost a shout. The intel geek looked up, as if finally getting the cue.

The debrief room's door clicked shut behind Gerry. “This is going to be a one-sided conversation,” Jim said.

Shit.
Red squared his feet and braced.

“You've made it clear you want to get the hell on the road. I understand. But what good would it do to be over the Atlantic and find out VEVAK set up Mossad with bad intel? We'd all be halfway around the world, ready to squash the wrong bug. Lori could still be here. We can't outrun our intel.”

Red could feel the blood pulsing in his head. Was Lori still alive?

Jim placed hands on hips and turned away. “The team doesn't trust you. A couple asked this morning if you should even be involved. Pressing to move before we've got good intel doesn't help. Hell, Red, skills are perishable. Even you said you had doubts. Glad you're eager to go, but quit acting like you've got a hard-on.”

He turned back, jabbing a finger into Red's chest, “Higher specified you for the team. They never tell me who to use. Don't know whose fingers are in the pot, but I've bucked orders in the past and they looked the other way because I get results. Now I'm telling you, as your commander, pull it together or I'll yank you. But as your friend, I'm saying that if you want to save Lori, then think about it like any other op. Separate yourself. Understood?”

Red muttered through stiff lips. “Permission to speak?”

“Denied.”

He closed his eyes.

“Good. You're back on the team. Don't worry, the time line is under control. After confirmation we'll be on station in seven hours.” Jim called the team back in.

Captain Richards raised a hand, as if he was addressing his geometry teacher. “How'd Mossad get ground-level shots of the safe house so fast?” Marksman grunted and shifted in his chair.