Whiplash (31 page)

He got off at the fourth floor, guessing that the hotel owner might be watching. His room faced the street. It was small, barely big enough to hold a bed, lamp, and table. A picture of Imam Khomeini looked down on him from above the bed.

Nuri examined the lock on the door. It was a simple latch, easily opened with a plastic card. Instead of a chain, there was a bar about neck high above the doorknob. This could be defeated by holding the door only partly ajar and pushing it in with a pen or something else long and slender. It took a little practice, since the bar had to be pushed just right, but he’d had plenty of practice.

Still worried that the hotel might be owned by the intelligence service, Nuri scanned the room for bugs, then checked for a live circuit at the door, just in case there was a device to indicate whether he was in the room. He found none.

“Locate Tarid,” he told the Voice.

“Subject’s location is unchanged.”

“When was the last time he moved?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

There were no TVs in the rooms. He had to be in bed, sleeping.

Nuri decided he would break into his room, mark him, and be done with it. If he could, he’d plant a bug on his bag as well. He made sure the vial of marker was ready in his pocket, then slipped out into the hallway.

T
HE SECOND TIME THE CAR WITH THE LOUD MUSIC PASSED
, Flash became apprehensive. He had no weapon and didn’t
understand any Farsi at all. There were no lights on in the windows on this part of the block. As far as he was concerned, he was an inviting target, obviously a lone foreigner, probably a hick one at that, in a place where he didn’t belong. He’d have been worried even if he were back home.

He started walking down the street, hoping he’d come to a place where there were more people.

He could feel the pulse of the bass as the car approached a third time. Flash’s muscles tensed.

The car jerked to a stop. Three young men got out, leaving the driver and another in the front. They swaggered over to the side of the street as Flash continued to walk. Despite the general prohibition on alcohol, all three were drunk; the smell of stale scotch wafted toward Flash as he walked.

“Hey, hey, look at this fag,” said one of the men. “Carrying two suitcases. He is such a little girl.”

“I bet he is a rich one.”

“One of the cases has makeup and his veil,” said the third.

Flash couldn’t understand the words but the gist of what they were about was obvious. He got ready for an attack.

“I think he is a tourist,” said one of the men in English. “Are you tourist?
Tour-ist
? Maybe you have euros, yes? Money for us.”

I have something for you, thought Flash. But he knew his best course was to be quiet and maybe slip away. That was the irony of being on a covert mission: You had to act like a coward.

He quickened his pace, walking so fast that they had to trot to keep up.

The man who had been speaking ran up behind him, trying to tap him on the shoulder as a tease. Flash saw his shadow growing on the pavement in front of him. Just as he got close, Flash spun and caught his arm, pulling it past him and throwing the man forward. He crashed head first against a car.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said a second man. He ran up and took
a swing at Flash. This was easily ducked—and when Flash came up, he threw two rights and a left into the man’s midsection, bowling him over.

The third young man, some years younger than the others at eighteen, began backing away. But it was too late for him—Flash stomped his right leg down, using it as a spring to leap forward. He hit the young man squarely in the chest, throwing him backward to the ground. The kid’s head hit the pavement. The rush of pain was so intense he blacked out.

The man he’d thrown against the car rebounded and tried to swing a roundhouse at Flash’s side, thinking he could catch him unawares. But Flash knew he was close and partly deflected the blow with his left arm. That left the Iranian open for a counterpunch, which Flash quickly scored to his face. The man staggered upright, shocked at the force of the blow. Foreigners were supposed to be weak; this man hit harder than anyone he’d ever fought.

Two more punches and he fell back, staggered and dizzy. He spun off to the ground and began throwing up the booze he’d drank earlier. Flash put his boot heel in the man’s side, knocking him to the ground in a swirl of vomit.

The attacker he’d punched in the stomach got up, took a step toward him, then realized he didn’t have a chance. He turned and ran up the block.

Before the fight began, the driver and his front seat passenger had been jeering and egging the younger men on. With their comrades faring poorly, they decided the time had come for them to get in on the action.

The driver pulled the latch on the trunk release, then jumped from the vehicle and ran to the back, grabbing a tire iron and tossing it to the other man. Then he pulled a crowbar out, and together they advanced on Flash.

Flash was deciding which one of the men to hit first, and how, when a gunshot broke the silence. He ducked, but the shot had not been aimed at him—it broke the back window of the car, blasting the glass.

“Get the hell out of here before you are next!” growled a
woman in gutter Farsi. She stood in the middle of the street, the wind whipping at her long skirt. Her face was covered by her scarf. She had a pistol in her hand; a man dressed entirely in black stood behind her with a rifle.

Hera and Danny had arrived.

“Now!” Hera yelled, pointing the gun.

The two men looked at each other, then at her.

“My car,” said the driver.

Danny raised the rifle, pointing it at his chest.

“You’re next,” he said in Farsi, parroting the words the Voice gave him.

The two men ran for the car.

N
URI WAS JUST REACHING A THIN PLASTIC CARD INTO THE
latch slot of Tarid’s door when the gunshot sounded a block behind the hotel. He froze, unsure if the sound was loud enough to wake Tarid.

It was. He heard him stir and backed away from the room quietly.

T
ARID BOLTED UP IN BED, ROLLING ON THE FLOOR
. H
IS FIRST
thought was that he was back in Sudan and under attack. Then he realized the sound had come from outside.

He ran to the door, pushed the latch closed and made sure the knob was locked.

It wasn’t going to hold anyone. He told himself to relax—the shot had been fired outside the hotel, surely not at him.

But if not at him, who could have been targeted? Shootings were very rare in the city, and this hadn’t been a celebratory outburst.

He thought of the hotel owner—and his daughter. He started putting on his pants and shoes, to make sure they were all right.

N
URI WAITED DOWN THE HALL, HOPING
T
ARID WOULD COME
out. Two other guests came out and began asking what was going on.

“A gunshot,” said Nuri.

“Where, where?”

The elevator door opened and the hotel owner came out. He looked up and saw Nuri. He was surprised to find him on the third floor.

“There’s been a shooting,” said Nuri quickly.

“It’s under control,” said the man, who’d come to get Tarid in hopes that Tarid could help him figure out what was going on. “Go back to bed.”

“What’s going on?”

“Go, it’s under control.”

Nuri decided to retreat. By the time Tarid opened the door, he was back upstairs.

“Nuri, what’s going on?” Danny asked over the Voice’s communications channel.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Flash almost got mugged. Where the hell are you?”

“In the hotel. Trying to tag Tarid.”

“You got him?”

“No, there’s too many people. We’ll have to try in the morning,” said Nuri reluctantly. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in an hour.”

Eastern Sudan

“A
T LEAST FORTY MEN THERE
, C
HIEF
.” S
UGAR HANDED BACK
the long distance night vision binoculars. “Two platoons, spread out in the positions. Then whatever they have behind them at the barracks.”

Boston refocused the glasses. Not only were there plenty of
soldiers, but the Ethiopian army had brought up two armored cars to cover the road and surrounding area. A troop truck blocked the road near the gate. Nearby, a group of forty or fifty Sudanese were squatting on the ground near the border fence, denied permission to go over the line.

“The border is often closed at night,” said Abul. “Maybe in the morning.”

“There’ll be more troops there in the morning,” said Boston, raising the glasses to view the barracks area beyond the checkpoint.

There were two dozen troop trucks parked near the dormitory-style buildings used as quarters for the border guards. The trucks had arrived late that afternoon, sent as soon as word reached army headquarters that there had been a massive raid on rebel units nearby. Such raids always increased the number of refugees trying to cross the border. As it had periodically in the past, the government decided not just to shut the border, but to be serious about it. The soldiers had been authorized to shoot to kill rather than allow the refugees to cross.

Boston wasn’t worried about getting shot, but he had yet to hear from Washington about the arrangements for diplomatic passage. He couldn’t see anyone near the checkpoint who looked as if they might be from the embassy, sent to help them across. Being interred in an Ethiopian prison camp—or kept among the refugees—was hardly how he wanted to spend the next few days. Or years.

“There is another passage one hundred kilometers south,” said Abul. “We can be there shortly after daybreak.”

“That one will have troops, too,” said Boston.

“Why don’t we just go south until we find a spot, and cut through the fence,” said Sugar. “Pick a spot, then drive across.”

“It’s not just the fence,” said Boston. “Satellite photo shows the ditch extends the entire way.”

The ditch was an antitank obstacle, designed to prevent exactly what Sugar was suggesting. It would probably only
slow a determined tank attack an hour or two at most, but the steep sides made it impossible for the bus to scale.

Boston considered splitting up—he could go across with the body of their dead comrade, then wait for the others to pick him up after crossing legitimately. But that would be inviting even more complications, completely unnecessary if Washington could just make the arrangements.

“Let me talk to Mrs. Stockard,” he said, handing the glasses back to Sugar. “Maybe they’ve made the arrangements. Otherwise our best bet right now is just to sit and wait.”

“You hear that?” asked Sugar, turning quickly.

“What?”

“I’m hearing a motorcycle over the hill.”

She’d heard it several times earlier as well. They’d checked once, Boston dropping off as the bus went ahead, but hadn’t seen anything.

He didn’t hear anything now. He shook his head.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” she said.

“Hopefully,” said Boston.

Room 4

CIA Campus

H
ALFWAY ACROSS THE WORLD IN
R
OOM
4
ON THE
CIA’
S
Langley campus, Breanna Stockard was sitting at her desk, keeping tabs on Danny and the others in Iran. She’d left a message for Ms. Bennett, telling her how to reach her, then brought her work here.

Being tied into the MY-PID system made her feel a little better. But not much.

As originally conceived, MY-PID took over many of the support functions spies and special operations units needed, and in theory there was no need for her to watch them from afar. But theory and reality were still struggling to fit together.

Breanna found it almost impossible not to check on their progress every so often, monitoring their communications and watching their locations. She hadn’t done this when Nuri started out the Jasmine mission alone, but now the stakes were considerably higher. And she knew more of the people involved.

Maybe the missions should always be directly monitored by someone, she thought, even if that was a deviation from the original plan and philosophy. She’d have to discuss it with Reid.

But if they were, she wouldn’t be the one doing it. And then she’d feel left out.

The communications system buzzed with an incoming call from Boston. The wall screen opened a window at the lower right-hand corner, mapping where the call was coming from. Had the area been under real-time visual surveillance, an image would have been supplied.

“Go ahead,” she said, allowing the transmission to connect. Technical data on the encryption method and communication rates were added to the screen.

“Mrs. Stockard?”

“Hello, Boston. I see you’re at the border. I’m still waiting for the embassy. They need to get permission from the Ethiopian government. They don’t think there’ll be a problem, but they have to make contact with the right officials. The situation remains the same—they’ve closed all the crossings.”

“Do you have an ETA on that permission, ma’am?”

“I wouldn’t expect it before morning. It may not come until the afternoon. They are working on it.”

“Yeah…” Boston’s voice trailed off.

“Is there a problem, Chief?”

“As I told you before, we left the base camp in kind of a
hurry. I’m not sure that the people we left behind are, uh—well, they may be a little pissed at us, if you know what I mean.”

“You can present yourselves at the border and go into Ethiopian custody if things get crazy,” said Breanna.

“That’s not my first preference.”

“It’s not mine, either. We should have an answer in the morning,” she told him. “I don’t think there’s going to be any problem in the end. It’s just the paperwork on their side. And getting to the right person.”

“All right,” said Boston.

The resignation in his voice was so obvious that Breanna told him not to worry again; she’d get him out under any circumstance.

“I’m not worried. I know you will,” said Boston.

“I’ll talk to you at nine
A.M
. your time,” Breanna told him. “Can you hold out until then?”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said.

As soon as Boston hung up, Breanna called back over to State to check on the request. But instead of the undersecretary who had been acting as a liaison, she got a bubbly assistant—the first bad sign.

The second bad sign came a moment later, when the assistant told her that all border crossing into Ethiopia had been closed “for the near future.”

Her voice made it sound like she had just scored tickets for the Super Bowl.

“I know that already,” said Breanna. “The ambassador is supposed to be explaining that we have a special situation.”

“Oh. Please hold.”

Breanna tried not to explode. The assistant was part of the night staff, and clearly not the best informed.

“We’re still working on it,” said the assistant, coming back on the line.

“And how long is that going to take?”

“Well, it’s nighttime over there now. Very late. You realize they’re several hours ahead of us. Six, actually.”

“Thank you,” said Breanna, confident the sarcasm in her voice would go right over the woman’s head.

It did.

“I think we have to make other arrangements,” she told Reid a short time later. “If we can’t count on help from the Ethiopian government.”

“They’ll help us, I’m sure.”

“But in how long? Two weeks? I don’t want to leave my people in an Ethiopian jail for two weeks. They’ll put them in a detention center until this gets straightened. And God knows what will happen there.”

“If we have the ambassador send someone to the border with passports,” said Reid, “we can get them over on diplomatic cover.”

“I already suggested that. They claimed the border shutdown applies to everyone, even diplomats.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“I’ve been pointing that out for hours now, Jonathon. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“I will,” said Reid. “But maybe the easiest thing would be to have them sneak across the border.”

“And leave McGowan’s body behind?”

“If they must.”

Breanna wasn’t willing to do that. “I’ll work something out,” she told him. “Even if I have to get them myself.”

“Now listen—”

The screen flashed, indicating she had another call, this one from the Air Force Airlift Command.

“Let me call you back,” she told Reid. “I’m getting a call from the people who are supposed to meet them in Ethiopia. I’m guessing there’s a problem there, too.”

Her intuition was correct. The major on the line was calling to tell her that the plane originally scheduled to fly to Ethiopia had suffered a mechanical breakdown in Germany. The next flight from Europe wouldn’t be available until the following afternoon.

“We do have a possible solution,” added the major, “but it would take some string pulling.”

“No one likes pulling strings more than I do,” lied Breanna.

“There’s an MC-17 Stretch due in at Andrews Air Force Base in about two hours. It’s en route to Turkey, but could be diverted if the right person were to make the request, if you catch my drift.”

“Your drift is just perfect,” said Breanna. “Who would the right person make the request to?”

The aircraft happened to be en route from, of all places, Dreamland, where it had picked up a pair of MV-22-G Osprey gunships. The Ospreys were to be delivered to a Ranger unit temporarily based at Incirlik. A detour to Ethiopia would put the delivery off schedule by about half a day; the Whiplash people could catch another flight home from there.

The general who was expecting the Ospreys took Breanna’s call. He’d served with her father, and it took only a few seconds of explanation before he agreed that the Ospreys could arrive a day late. But Breanna met a more serious roadblock when she called the wing commander responsible for the aircraft. The pilot had gotten sick on the flight east and was due to be relieved as soon as he landed.

“It’s not a big deal, really, but I can’t get a full crew until tomorrow,” said the colonel.

“You don’t have anyone tonight?”

“You know how tight these staffing cuts have us. We’re low priority on head count. This is a reserve unit and—”

“I know where you can find a pilot,” she interrupted. “And she works cheap, too.”