Templar 09 - Secret of the Templars (14 page)

As soon as Koppel began monitoring the traffic between Rusty Smart and his men, most of whom were already in Mumbai, a strident alarm went off on his computer.

Automatically every screen in the safe house blacked out except for the single machine he was transmitting on. Working quickly, he gathered up any papers implicating him or any of his people in any sort of off-campus operation. He sent a single line of text to all his people simultaneously, which was encrypted in a private coding that was particular to the Ghost Squad. That done, he set a series of booby traps in the safe house and left immediately.

He went down into the garage of the building, took out two sets of keys and approached the green Range Rover that was his normal mode of transport and the only vehicle registered in his name.

Once again he set a single booby trap under the front seat of the Range Rover and locked it up. He then went down one floor in the parking garage and fobbed open the doors of a four-year-old Toyota Corolla registered in the name of Arthur Brant, a resident of New York City. Brant was also the name on one of the passports in his attaché case and the one he would be using later tonight. He opened the trunk of the car, took out a set of New York plates and exchanged them for the Maryland plates the car usually carried. He then placed the old plates into the trunk, got in behind the wheel and drove out of the parking garage, heading northwest. Driving slightly above the speed limit, he expected to be at Chicago's O'Hare International by midnight and in the air shortly thereafter.

Back at Langley, Koppel noted the relay being dropped and also the flash message being sent out from the Arlington safe house. He flagged down a clerk and told him to take the message to cryptography. Koppel himself rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, a place he almost never visited. He found Kitchen's office and told him what had happened. Kitchen dismissed him, got on the telephone and ordered a complete sweep of the Arlington safe house, telling the crew to take a demolition expert with them. It was
standard tradecraft to booby-trap a facility being abandoned.

Heaving a large sigh, Kitchen stood up, left his office and then walked down the long blue-carpeted hall to tell George Abramovich the bad news.

*   *   *

Holliday and Lazarus sat at the dining table in a suite at the Grand Sarovar. It was early morning and instead of enjoying the local cuisine Holliday and Lazarus had decided on eggs Benedict, orange juice and strong hot coffee.

“We're not actually thinking of going along with this, are we?” Lazarus asking, taking a piece of egg and swiping it through the hollandaise.

Holliday sipped his coffee, his expression dark. “I don't give a shit one way or the other about our Oxford-educated friend Mr. Raman or his lowlife opponent Bapat. The only thing that concerns me right now is that scroll. Peggy and Rafi died because of it and I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone use it to screw around with the opium market. All the heroin dealers and junkies in the world can go to hell. I just want the scroll.”

“Easier said than done,” said Lazarus. “Who do we fight? Raman or Bapat? And what do we
fight them with? These people have armies behind them.”

“I can do better than an army,” said Holliday. “I've got Pat Philpot.”

“Who?”

“Potsy and I go back a long, long way,” said Holliday, smiling.

Holliday had first met Patrick R. Philpot, otherwise know as Potsy, while on a Ranger operation in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. Potsy was an intelligence officer, one who had his fingers in more pies than Holliday had ever seen before. He scavenged bits of unconnected information like old ladies gathered up string. They had run into each other again when Philpot was climbing the ladder of success at the newly constructed Counterterrorism Center not far from the Langley headquarters of the CIA. The next time they met was shortly after Holliday and Eddie had crashed a giant snowplow through the main entrance of the security gate of the U.S. embassy in Moscow.

After finishing their breakfast, Holliday and Lazarus went down to the hotel's business center and reserved a private cubicle fitted with a computer terminal, a printer and a satellite phone.

“Watch this,” said Holliday. He punched out a series of numbers on the satellite phone. There
were several buzzes and clicks and finally the ringing of a telephone.

A groggy voice answered. “What?”

“Potsy! It's John Holliday.”

“Do you know what damn time it is here?”

“I thought you guys in Counterterrorism were ever vigilant.”

“Vigilant, my ass. Whatever you want, the answer is no.”

“Don't be that way, Potsy,” Holliday said. “How many people know you've covered my ass for the snowplow thing?”

“You said you'd never tell anyone about that.”

“I lied.”

“You're blackmailing me?” Philpot said.

“I wouldn't call it blackmail. I'd call it a small nudge in a particular direction.”

“What direction would that be?” said Philpot wearily.

“I want you to send me your latest Onyx pictures on location of the Mullah Omar.”

“There is no Onyx.”

“Don't be silly, Potsy. I know Onyx exists. You know Onyx exists. For God's sake Wikipedia knows Onyx exists.”

“Why do you need this material?”

“Because I'm going to kill the son of a bitch,” said Holliday. “I never got to kill Bin Laden, so I
thought I'd try my hand as the chief honcho of the Taliban.”

“You're out of your freaking mind,” said Philpot.

“I'm crazy?” Holliday said. “You're the man who's pathologically obsessed with two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. You don't have blood in your veins—you have McNuggets.”

“Why do you always bring this down to my eating habits?” Philpot said from eight thousand miles away.

“Simple,” said Holliday. “Because the very mention of a Big Mac makes your teeth rattle and we both know that there is a twenty-four-hour McDonald's exactly halfway between your apartment and the Counterterrorism Center. You send me the pictures, you go to McDonald's, you have a couple of Big Macs and then you go home to bed, nobody the wiser.”

“All right,” said Philpot, sighing. “Where do I send it?”

Holliday gave him the IP number and e-mail address of the terminal in front of him.

“Give me a couple of hours,” said Philpot.

“An hour.”

“An hour, then.”

Holliday turned to Lazarus. “Put a Big Mac
on the end of a hook and that guy would follow you anywhere.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We wait for the pictures and then we go back to the Old Curiosity Shop.”

*   *   *

Hashim Bakshi's face fell as Holliday and Lazarus returned to his shop. Holliday paused as he closed the door behind him and flipped over the “Closed” sign. As they approached the counter they could see Bakshi cringing.

“Don't worry, Bakshi. We haven't told Raman or anybody else about our little conversation.” Bakshi's expression brightened immediately, although there was still a wary look in his eyes.

“What can I do for you this time?” the old man said.

“Let's make one thing perfectly clear before we begin. Not all the goods in this store came here legitimately and quite a few of them are fakes. Agreed?”

Bakshi hesitated for a moment and then his shoulders sagged. “Agreed,” he replied.

“How did they get here?” Lazarus asked.

“I employ a number of fabricators in Mumbai who make copies of original antique furniture.”

“And the rest?” Holliday asked.

Bakshi shrugged his shoulders. “They're smuggled.”

“Do you smuggle things for other people?”

“Yes,” said Bakshi.

“Where do you smuggle these things from?”

“Afghanistan, Pakistan. Sometimes even from China, and occasionally from Iran.”

“Do you ever smuggle people?” Holliday asked.

“Rarely,” said Bakshi.

“How rare is rare?” Holliday asked.

“Four, perhaps five times a year.”

“From where?”

“Afghanistan.”

“How do you smuggle them?”

“I don't do it myself. I know someone who does.”

“How does he do it?” Lazarus asked.

“I have never asked about his methods. He is a Pakistani gentleman named Haji Ayub Afridi.”

“Where do we find Afridi?”

“Look for him at the border crossing at Chaman. He has a rice and textile exporting company on Khandari Road.”

Rusty Smart, Paul Streeter, Tom Harris, James Black and Elliot Foster met at the rendezvous point sent by Smart in his encrypted message twenty-four hours before. It was a large apartment in Prague overlooking Old Town Square. Like many old apartments in Prague, it was high ceilinged with plaster moldings, dangling chandeliers and highly polished dark oak floors. The walls were plastered and had a faint blue tint. The windows were tall and curtained with long green velvet drapery. Most of the furniture was white neo-Baroque and heavily highlighted in gold. The seats on the couches and the cushions on the chairs were all uncomfortable, but there was very little that Rusty Smart could do about that. He'd rented the apartment furnished using money from one of the numerous slush funds operated in Europe by the Company.

The men were all gathered around the large dining room table. The drapes were drawn, even though it was only midday. Smart had swept the place for bugs upon arrival and found that the only way to hear their conversation here would be to bounce an oscillating laser transmitter against window glass, turning the glass into a microphone.

“You're sure we've been burned?” said Elliot Foster.

“I wouldn't have sent out that message if I hadn't been absolutely sure. Someone was looking over my shoulder.”

“You couldn't have explained it away?” Streeter asked.

“I thought about that,” said Smart. “Maybe they would have believed it for a while, but they'd watch everything I did from that moment on. The trick is to be invisible and not to make waves. They caught me red-handed.”

“Fuck,” said Foster. “Now we're all fugitives just because you made a stupid mistake.”

Smart responded coldly, “I might have made a mistake, but so did you. You had Holliday all sewn up but he somehow got away from you. If he hadn't escaped, we wouldn't be in this situation now.”

“Why don't we stop playing the blame game and come up with a solution?” said Harris. He'd been the one on Lazarus and Holliday's tail in Rome.

“I already have a solution,” said Smart. “The object of this whole game has been to get that goddamn scroll. We tried buying it, but that got screwed up when that Indian fag stole it. We know the final destination is Mullah Omar and we know exactly where he is.”

“Where?” Foster asked.

“Just inside the Afghan border close to Kandahar,” said Smart.

“Then how the hell are we supposed to get at him?” Streeter asked.

Smart turned to Foster. “Do you still know anyone in that bunch at Camp Gecko?”

“What's Camp Gecko?” Harris asked.

Foster explained: “Camp Gecko used to be one of Bin Laden's bases near Kandahar back in the nineties. The Company used to run an operation there with the joint Canadian-American special forces group that worked out of the camp. But they dropped out of the game when the Afghan government started raising shit about the Gecko unit doing unauthorized killings for the drug lords. The prime minister began to really
raise hell about them after they assassinated his baby brother. They've kind of gone underground now.”

“Are they equipped?” Smart asked.

“Blackhawks, Vulcan miniguns, night vision—all the good stuff. The question is, can you get us there?”

“No. The question is, can we get Afghan tribal garb, eh?”

*   *   *

It had taken Holliday and Lazarus the better part of three days to reach Haji Ayub Afridi's import-export company in Chaman. The journey involved an incredibly tedious train ride from Mumbai to Ahmedabad, an equally tedious bus ride from there to Quetta and finally a shorter, dustier bus ride north to Chaman.

When they arrived at the bus terminal, a desperate building of mud bricks and aluminum siding, they found a taxi to take them to something that advertised itself as a five-star hotel—a place that wouldn't have qualified as a flophouse anywhere else. The single room had two iron beds with pillows and a single sheet with a sink against one wall and a ragged rug on the floor between the beds. They dumped their baggage, went back
to the taxi and then headed off to the address Bakshi had given them.

The two men went into the building through a narrow door off to the side. Holliday noticed as they entered that three of the windows had been papered over. Inside the warehouse, they were confronted by piles of jute bags, each one looking as though it could easily carry five hundred pounds. Three trucks were being loaded with the bags, each loader carrying a single bag across his back. It looked like grueling work.

To the right was an office, and again, the windows were all papered over. Holliday knocked. A gruff voice answered in Arabic; taking that as a “Come in,” Holliday and Lazarus opened the door and entered the office.

There was a single desk against the left wall with a man seated in an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair. He turned away from the ledger he had been working on and stood up, silently inspecting Holliday and Lazarus. The man was of medium height and looked to be in his early to mid-sixties, although his very dark complexion made it hard to tell. His face was narrow, his cheeks were high and he had a well-groomed mustache. His deep-set eyes were black as pitch and he wore a pale green half turban on his head.

“We are looking for Haji Ayub Afridi,” said Holliday.

“Why are you looking for him?” the man asked.

“We were sent by Mr. Bakshi in Mumbai.”

“A good man, Bakshi. What did he tell you about this man Afridi?”

“He told us that Mr. Afridi could get us into Afghanistan.”

“You have passports, don't you? Why not just use them to cross the border as any man would.”

“Two reasons,” Holliday replied. “We don't wish it to be known that we are in Afghanistan, and if possible we would like to get into Afghanistan as well armed as possible.”

“Weapon smuggling.” The man nodded. “A dangerous business.”

“Mr. Bakshi said that Mr. Afridi was a very resourceful man. He also said that Mr. Afridi did not sell his services cheaply.”

“Mr. Bakshi is quite right about that. To smuggle two armed men into Afghanistan would be a very expensive proposition.”

“How expensive?” Holliday asked.

The man smiled at Holliday. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Each.”

“This is a guaranteed price?”

“I guarantee all the work that I do, Colonel Holliday.”

“You're well informed, Mr. Afridi.”

“Being well informed is necessary for survival in my business. You agree to the deal?”

“Not a problem,” replied Holliday. “When do we go?”

“Tomorrow night,” said Afridi. “Be here at nine o'clock.”

*   *   *

At nine o'clock the following evening Holliday and Lazarus appeared at Afridi's warehouse once again.

This time there was only one truck in the loading bay. Three men waited as before while the fourth stood in the truck. Afridi greeted them and led them into his office.

“The clothes won't do,” he said. “Take them off.”

While Holliday and Lazarus disrobed, Afridi went out into the warehouse. He reappeared carrying a bundle of filthy clothes, several strips of equally dirty cloth and two pairs of sandals. He also had a tin coffee can, which he set down on his desk. He handed one set of clothes to Holliday and another to Lazarus.

“First of all,” said Afridi, “you are much too clean.” He grabbed the coffee can, dipped his hand into it and began rubbing a thin layer of grit
and dirt into the men's faces, necks, hands, feet and even hair. When he was finished, the two men had been transformed. Instead of two Western men, two Afghan beggars stood in front of Afridi. He nodded and wound the cloth strips onto half turbans around their heads, pinning them securely. For the last touch he gave each man a cloth sash to wrap around his waist.

“What about the weapons?” Holliday asked.

“Already loaded,” said Afridi. “What about my payment?”

Holliday reached down toward the bundle of his own clothes lying in front of him, dug around in the inner pocket of his jacket and handed Afridi two rubber-banded rolls of ten thousand dollars each.

“Good enough?” Holliday said.

“Excellent,” said Afridi. “Follow me.”

Afridi led Holliday and Lazarus out to the truck. A large wooden box stood on the truck bed. The box was eighteen inches high and four feet wide. Both the top and one end were missing. A piece of PVC pipe five feet high and six inches in diameter ran through the box at the head end, a large hole bored into it to let air in.

There was a small battery-driven fan that would provide air during the trip. The pipe also descended through the floor of the truck bed in
case the upper pipe became covered. The bottom of the box was padded with a thick cushion of blankets. On each side of the box an AK-47 and a Llama .45 caliber semiautomatic duct taped into place. The rest of the space on the sides of the box was filled with extra magazines for the weapons.

“So now what?” Lazarus asked. “You don't really expect us to get into that, do you?”

“I'd suggest that you do,” said Afridi. “I do not give refunds. If you wish to be taken into Afghanistan anonymously, this is the only way.”

They climbed up onto the truck, lay down side by side in the open-ended box and waited. Afridi climbed up onto the truck bed and crouched down beside them.

“Here are some things you might need,” said Afridi. He handed down two jute bags. “Each one contains a bottle of water, some bread and some cheese. There is also a sheathed shortened Khyber knife. Wear it on your sash. It's very commonly used where you're going.”

He continued: “In Colonel Holliday's bag there is a Garmin GPS unit. In Mr. Lazarus's bag there is a Russian military compass just in case the batteries run out in the GPS unit. You will find strips of cloth beneath the blankets. Bind the blankets into a bedroll and hide the weapons
within them. Try to travel only by night and stay as far off the roads as possible. The journey will take approximately one hour. The first stop will be at the border, so maintain absolute silence. The second stop will be your destination. I don't suppose either of you speaks Farsi or Arabic, by any chance?”

“I can get by in both,” said Holliday. “I was stationed in Afghanistan for three tours. I got to know a little about the place.” He smiled up at Afridi.
“As-salaam alaikum.”

Afridi touched his forehead with three fingers.
“Wa alaikum salaam.”

Darkness fell as the top of the box was lowered above them. The box was nailed at each corner, as was the piece of plywood at the end. Bags were loaded over them, and within five minutes, the truck was in motion.

Inside the box was total darkness. Holliday could hear Lazarus breathing rapidly beside him. He reached down and turned on the switch, activating the fan. It began to whir, sending a flood of cool evening air into the box.

“Better,” said Lazarus. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Holliday answered.

Half an hour later the truck came to a labored stop. They could hear the sound of crowds moving back and forth across the border as well as
trucks lining up behind them. They were vaguely aware of a conversation being held between the driver and a customs official.

With a grinding of gears, the truck moved off, the loud horn making a squawking sound as it lurched around a slow-moving vehicle. Forty minutes later the truck stopped again. Bags were unloaded and the top of the box was torn open by the driver and his loader.

Without a word Holliday and Lazarus gathered up the weapons and extra magazines, rolled everything into the blankets and tied them with the strips of cloth using a longer piece as a sling. They pushed the bread and cheese into one pocket of their shirts and the bottle of water into the other. Finally they pushed the Khyber knives through the sashes around their waists and dropped down from the rear of the truck. Within seconds the loader was heaving bags back up onto the truck bed. Lazarus and Holliday joined in, making the job that much quicker.

“
Shukran,”
said the loader.

“You are welcome,” Holliday replied in Arabic.

The loader grinned and then climbed back into the truck. The gears ground, and the truck's taillights quickly disappeared into the darkness.

Holliday looked around. Mountains reared up
like gargantuan shark's teeth on all sides. The landscape was about as welcoming as walking into a cage full of hungry Bengal tigers.

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” said Lazarus.

“Don't say it,” said Holliday, sighing.

“We sure aren't in Kansas anymore.” Lazarus smiled.

“I told you not to say that,” said Holliday.