The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (19 page)

She visibly softened, then turned her face to the window. He detected the trace of a nod.

“Well then, now you know how I feel about taking Basayev down. I cannot fail William Blackenford. I will not fail him. And at the end of the day, you owe me on this. You know you do.”

He saw her shoulders sag a little as the defiance went out of her, then her green eyes opened up and held his. “All right, Jarrod. You made your point. Let’s do this.” Jarrod couldn’t help but notice Sarah seemed quite emotional at his pitch. Perhaps he was more convincing than he thought.

“OK. Great. Let’s…wait a second. Sarah, are you crying?”

She quickly changed her expression and composed herself. “Of course not, you idiot…I’m just emotional. The last few years, it hasn’t been easy…thinking of my sister.”

She took a deep breath.

“Well, since I am going down in flames, I won’t have to stand for my annual polygraph test. I might as well bring you up to speed on certain elements of my Agency history. And besides, we need to flesh out your cover.”

For the next hour and a half, Sarah walked him through the last five years. After Beirut, she’d spent two years at the Agency’s counterterrorism center, sifting through files at night and on weekends, building the mosaic of data that would identify the brothers of the 9/11 hijackers. She found the best information centered around Ahmed Bannihammad, brother of Fayez Bannihammad and that he had been tagged several times in the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan, which was sort of like saying he was somewhere in Nevada, but it gave her the ballpark he was playing in.

Yet in the files she found those strands of information that might possibly lead her to her quarry. But in order to run those trap lines she had to be on the ground in country. So she volunteered for service at the Agency station in Islamabad. She did the Agency’s bidding in some of the most distasteful ways, pulling together the glimmers of information to illuminate her quest. The ISI—the Pakistani intelligence agency—was little more than an al-Qaeda annex, but within its members were those pearls that would lead to Bannihammad. She became the mistress of several ISI officers, wringing out the data until the golden thread emerged and Bannihammad’s driver was identified.

Then she swallowed her revulsion, put her charms on, and bedded the oily driver until he gave up the coordinates to put Bannihammad in the kill box.

Jarrod couldn’t help but squirm, his Southern gentleman sensibilities violated by the idea of some slimeball pawing her.

But when she related the story of her parachute improvisation-drop in-assassination of Bannihammad, he could only gape at her.

“And they gave me a second Blue Heart for that. I had some leave coming, and I was staying at my mother’s when you contacted me.”

It took Jarrod a while to absorb it all. Then after some quiet reflection, he said, “Shamil Basayev better watch out, is all I can say.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tbilisi, Georgia

Five Days until Options Expiration

Elbruk Matsil was brewing tea on the makeshift kitchen table when one of the terrorists emerged from the washroom, wiping his face with a towel. He did a double take, for it took him a moment to realize it was Shamil Basayev. The Commander had just shaved off his beard.

At that moment, one of the henchmen raised the overhead door and a pickup truck pulled in. The engine was killed and the overhead door quickly dropped. A skinny, middle-aged man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair exited and was greeted with an embrace by Shamil Basayev. A couple of the older cronies also embraced him as well, with a stream of Chechen to the effect of “Haven’t seen you in ages,” and gibberish of that ilk. One of Basayev’s henchmen threw a grip into the back of the pickup as the Commander made the rounds of saying
adios
to his compatriots.

When he came to Matsil, he took him into his embrace. “Elbruk, my brother, thank you for bringing me over the mountains. Now I must take my leave and complete our sacred mission. When I return, we will all make our way back to Chechnya. You remain here with the rear guard, and I will see you on my return.”

Elbruk feigned his disappointment that his Commander was leaving. “Will you be in danger? When will you return?”

The terrorist laughed heartily. “We are all in danger all the time. But I should return in a week or so.”

As Basayev grabbed his worn backpack and started towards the door, he motioned to Vaslav. “Why don’t you go with Elbruk to the market so we can make a celebratory meal for your comrades. Victory is within our grasp.” Elbruk humbly smiled and wondered why he was singled out yet again for such a menial task.

Basayev then climbed into the cab with the driver, and the door was raised again. Once they had driven off, the door came down and the rear guard of eight men settled into a bored waiting game. Four played cards, one surfed porn sites on the Internet, while another was lying on his bunk, reading a Japanese graphic comic book. Vaslav, who was nursing a bowl of borsht, promptly slammed his bowl on the table, causing some of the soup to spill over on the table. “Let’s go!” he barked as he grabbed his coat. Elbruk had no choice but to follow.

*

Elbruk Matsil wandered through the outdoor farmer’s market on the bank of the Mt’k’vari river, picking his way through various bins of vegetables with Vaslav the gorilla at his elbow. He was somewhat resentful he’d been sent on a woman’s errand, and he had not survived the Chechen wars without finely turned antennae for his own safety. Despite the Commander’s endorsement of him as his “brother,” the whole setup didn’t feel right. Vaslav had not taken his eyes off Elbruk, and he knew that bulge in Vaslav’s jacket wasn’t a teddy bear.

He was torn. Should he wait for Basayev to return and see how things played out? Or try to run for it to establish contact with the Americans, for they would pay handsomely for the information on Basayev and his conspiracy. He fingered the grenade he always kept in his jacket pocket— a kind of rabbit’s foot he’d used more than once to extricate himself from some tight situations. If he pulled the pin here, it would probably take out Vaslav and cover his escape. But there would be collateral damage that the Georgians would not take kindly to. Of course, he could blame it on Vaslav if he must.

Still, he was torn. What was Basayev up to? What was that fire hydrant device he’d carried into Russia itself? If not a bomb, then what? If he could find out what was going to unfold, how much would the Americans pay then?

“Matsil?”

Lost in thought, Elbruk nearly jumped out of his skin at the abrupt interruption. He turned and said, “Da?”

“Do not forget the cabbage,” instructed Vaslav as he pointed to a dilapidated stand off the main market with a sparse selection of subpar produce, including rotting potatoes and a pile of bruised and unappealing cabbage.

Elbruk started walking slowly toward the vegetable stand. As he did, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Vaslav motioned to another gentleman and then subtly pointed in Elbruk’s direction. The gentleman didn’t look “gentle” at all. He was a burly middle-aged fellow with a dirty beard and a permanent scowl. Elbruk increased his gait, knowing this could be quite bad for him. He had had a hunch that Basayev didn’t trust him, and now he was about to find out the hard way whether his hunch was true.

As he reached the stand, he found it peculiar that there was no street peddler manning the area. In fact, there was nobody within twenty feet of this stand, aside from the goons quickly approaching behind him. Elbruk grabbed one of the cabbages, took the grenade out, and quickly shoved it into the cabbage, his finger still on the pin. He then turned around to face Vaslav, who was about five meters away.

“Matsil, Basayev wants to know who you are working with. He can sense you are not in solidarity with our brothers in this war. Tell me now or you will die.”

“Vaslav, please, I am not working with anyone. I am true to Basayev”

“Then give me your phone, right now.”

Matsil knew he was in deep trouble. He was usually diligent in deleting his call history, but with all the stress he was under, he couldn’t recall if he actually did.

“OK. Let me put this down,” Matsil responded, pointing to the cabbage. “I will give you my phone. I have nothing to hide.” He slowly put down the cabbage among the pile of rotting vegetables and stealthily pulled the pin. He then turned toward Vaslav and counted backward in his head,
Five, four, three.
He then held out the phone for Vaslav to retrieve, the pin hidden from view in his other hand.

Vaslav was visibly annoyed and started taking a few steps toward Matsil to retrieve the phone. When Matsil’s count reached zero, he quickly closed his hand around the phone and bolted in the opposite direction, down the alley, as if someone were shooting at him. He would have indeed been shot, had it not been for the eardrum-shattering explosion that reverberated down the alley a sub-second later, sending shards of metal, wood, and cabbage at close range into Vaslav and his brutish friend.

Matsil was almost knocked off his feet but was somehow able to keep his balance despite the cloud of debris engulfing him. He heard nothing but screams of panic as the market behind him whipped into a frenzy. His survival instinct kicked in, and Matsil kept running. He knew his only hope for survival would be to get out the city and get as far away from Basayev’s goons as possible.

*

The Gulfstream rolled onto the parking apron of the private aviation tarmac and the engines cut power. Osborne deployed the gangway and stepped aside to allow Sarah to exit.

“A pleasure serving you, Miss Kashvilli. I will see to your bag.”

“Thank you, Osborne. You make a mean Manhattan, I must say.”

She exited the cabin to a clear midday sky in the Georgian capital, with a slight chill due to the three-thousand-foot elevation. She looked down to see a Vauxhall town car with a driver holding the rear door open.

“Beats waiting on baggage claim.”

“It’s hard to travel commercial after you get used to this. Shall we?”

Osborne put their gear in the trunk and then whisked them away. The modern airport was seventeen miles away from the city’s center, and as farm fields whipped by, Sarah asked, “So how do you intend to play this?”

“When we get to the hotel, I’ll send a message to Rick Edgerton asking for an urgent meeting. Then when he shows up we do the dog and pony.”

He did not have to explain to her that he would send a couriered message instead of making a call. They didn’t need their telephone conversation with the CIA station chief listened to by a National Security Agency analyst.

As they cruised through the city, they passed by structures that reflected 1,500 years of history since the founding of Tbilisi by Georgian King Vakhtang I Gorgasal in 458 AD. Legend had it that the king was so taken by the warm springs he discovered on a falconry expedition that he founded the settlement.

Because Georgia, like much of the Caucus region, had been invaded and ruled by virtually every Asian empire, the place was a mishmash of architecture and ethnicity. Indeed, it was one of the few places on earth where you could find a synagogue and a mosque built side by side. And that was mixed with everything from the epicurean Romanesque to the banal Soviet, with a heavy dose of hovels that looked like they were transplanted from the Middle Ages.

“You been here before?”

Sarah nodded. “Twice. Last visit was when I was twenty-one with my grandmother—but she treated me as a daughter. Really shouldn’t have made that trip, her health was so frail. But she wanted me to see the old country one last time before she died.”

“Was she the one who taught you the language?”

Sarah nodded. “Both my parents were very busy, so I spent quite a bit of time with my grandparents.”

She noticed the driver had taken a turn up into the foothills overlooking the city.

“
Sadats’ aris ch’ven mimdinaire
?” she enquired.

“Blu Iveria,” replied the driver.

She turned to Jarrod. “What is the Blu Iveria?”

“It comes highly recommended.”

The car wove its way up a wooded lane until it pulled into the driveway of a gleaming new glass-and-steel hotel that had a breathtaking panorama of the city below.

“Do you travel like this all the time?”

“Perks,” he replied.

A white-gloved bellhop opened the door and said, in English, “Welcome to the Blue Iveria, Mr. Stryker. Registration is just to your right.”

Jarrod said, “Please look after our bags,” as he peeled off an American fifty-dollar bill and pressed it into his hand.

“Certainly, sir.”

Jarrod went to the concierge desk, and as he went through the registration protocol, Sarah took stock of the open, airy lobby. She might have been in Chicago or San Francisco, given the modernity of the hotel, except off to the far side, there was a doorway that had a neon casino sign above it.

Jarrod returned, followed by a bellhop carrying their luggage on a gurney. He gently took her arm and said, “Shall we?”

They rode up to the eighth floor and strode down the hall to a double door where the bellhop inserted an electronic key. They entered the sitting room of a large suite with a bay window overlooking the city and the Mtkvari River. The décor was minimalist Danish but clearly expensive. Although impressed with the setting, Sarah was a little disconcerted until, without a word, the bellhop took her bag and put it in one bedroom and Jarrod’s in the other across the way.

“Since we have nothing to do until we hear from Edgerton, I took the liberty of booking you into the spa for the afternoon. Wind down. Get a massage. Take some of the tension out.”

“Perks, as you say? Well, I’ll take you up on that. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

He shrugged. “Make a few calls. Check the markets. Maybe catch a swim. That’s my exercise regimen when I’m on the road.”

“And we’re definitely on the road.” She walked toward her room and said, “I’ll change and see you in a few hours.”

*

As the sun was dipping toward the horizon, what was left of Sarah Kashvilli emerged from the spa and limped into the pool area. A Georgian masseur named Yanni, with fingers like rivets, had given her a deep tissue massage that left her with the consistency of silly putty. That was followed by a sea salt wrap, a sauna, and a facial. The cosmetologist suggested a swim and produced a red bikini from the gift shop that fit her a bit snugly.

She meekly complied, feeling like she’d succumbed to the luxury spa version of water boarding. It appeared that an emotional toll that had been weighing on her had magically lifted.

Entering the “infinity lounge pool,” she felt like she’d walked into a goldfish bowl as the elevated pool was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling glass, providing a striking view of the city below.

She dropped her robe and approached the water, seeing a lone figure knifing through some laps. She quickly deduced it was Jarrod, and given all the tension, she figured it was time for a little horseplay. She waited until he’d finished his turn, then jumped in, landing in a straddle across his legs.

Caught off guard, he sputtered, then spun round to see a laughing raven-haired beauty.

“Oh, yeah?” With both hands, he sent a mini tsunami
her way, and she countered, thrashing the surface until it was foamy. He ducked under the surface, managed to grab her ankles, and yanked, pulling her under.

When they bobbed to the top, both were laughing between gasps, and it took a few moments to realize someone was at poolside staring at them.
It was the white-gloved bellhop holding a silver tray with an envelope on it. “Mitstah Stryker, sir, you have a message.”

Jarrod heaved himself out of the pool and quickly toweled himself off. Sarah noticed that the washboard abs had lost a little of their edge but were still nice and flat.
His hands dry, he tore open the envelope and read the handwritten unsigned message:
Mtkvari bar. Alexeevka Street. 10:00
pm
.