Mullins squinted, trying to focus on the country Grant was pointing to. “Whoa! Christ, Grant! That’s a hotbed of real bad shit!”
Grant went back to the desk. “I know, Scott, but like I said, I just suspect right now. Hope I’m wrong.”
Mullins shook his head slowly. “And you thought your trip to China was a bitch! At least the whole country wasn’t shootin’.”
“You’re right. Only half of it was.” Grant thought briefly about the rescue mission to China.
The phone rang. “You expecting any calls?” Mullins asked.
“No, but Frank and DJ were on surveillance. Might be them.”
Mullins picked up the receiver. “Mullins. Yeah, he’s here.” He handed the receiver to Grant. “It’s Frank.”
“Yeah, Frank.”
“Boss, uh… ”
“Lay it on me, Frank.”
“You were right about having us set up surveillance at the embassy. We spotted some guy shoving a rolled up newspaper under the gate. He wasn’t your typical newspaper boy, boss. We decided to follow him and… ”
“Frank, don’t tell me you lost him.”
Diaz cleared his throat. “Okay, I won’t.”
“Goddammit, Frank!”
“The guy was good, boss. Even with all the pedestrians and traffic, somehow he ‘made’ us.”
Grant flopped down on the chair. “Where’d you lose him?”
“DuPont Circle. He high-tailed it up Connecticut Avenue. By the time we made it around the circle, his ass was long gone.” Grant was silent. “Sorry, boss, but I can give you a description of the car and him.”
“Not even a plate number?” Grant asked, shaking his head.
“He was too fuckin’ clever. Always managed to have somebody right behind him, hiding it. DJ couldn’t even make it out with glasses.” Diaz thought it best to continue, considering Grant went silent again. “He was driving a dark blue, ’73 Z28 Camaro. And, boss, we snapped a couple of pictures of him. You’re… ”
“Where are you now?”
“Eagle 8.”
“See you in about an hour.” End of conversation.
Diaz dropped the phone in its cradle, as James asked, “Well?”
“Well?! He’s fuckin’ pissed, DJ! He’s saving the ass reamin’ till he gets here!”
Grant clenched his jaw, as he leaned forward and began rubbing his palms briskly together in frustration.
Mullins finally asked, “You planning on starting a fire with those hands, or you wanna tell me what happened?”
“They spotted a guy who they think was passing a message to somebody in the Russian Embassy. They lost him in traffic.”
Mullins opened the desk center drawer and took out a yellow lined pad and a pencil from the tray. “What kinda car was it?”
“A ’73 Z28 Camaro, dark blue,” Grant answered, but he was already preparing to move forward in another direction. “Scott, how long would it take to confirm whether or not the Russians have a plane at Dulles.”
“Would they use a major airport to move those weapons?”
Grant shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? Especially if they claim diplomatic privilege. Besides, we’ve gotta start somewhere. But whether it’s Dulles or not, I can’t see them using a slower mode of transportation.”
“Like a boat?”
Grant nodded, with his words coming slowly. “Right. Like a boat.”
“You’re not seriously thinking that, are you?!”
“With both Russian carriers operational in the Med, yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”
“But they still have to get the weapons… ”
Grant waved a hand. “I know. I know. Give me time to work that out.” He got up abruptly. “I’ve gotta go. Hope you can get something on that Camaro.”
“I’ll let you know asap. Hey, do you have enough cash on hand?”
“Should be plenty in the safe, but I’ll verify there’s a good ‘mix.’” Grant put on his baseball cap. “You can reach me on the car phone or at the house.”
“Here,” Mullins said, as he put the cover on the thermos. “And take the donuts.”
“I’ll take the coffee. You keep the donuts.”
“What about Joe and the guys?”
“I’ve got another three dozen in the Vette.”
Grant extended his hand, and Mullins grasped it firmly. “Talk to you soon.”
Chapter 8
The KhAD, the Afghan secret police, officially known as the State Intelligence Agency, was headquartered in one of the most well protected areas in Kabul. Work never stopped, whether inside or outside the building.
Under the firm control of the KGB, the KhAD was used by the Soviets to gather intelligence, infiltrate the Mujahideen, spread false information, and bribe tribal militias into fighting. KhAD’s system of informers and operatives extended into virtually every aspect of Afghan life. It assumed responsibility for training young Afghans to be loyal to the Soviet Union, but a good deal of money and the promise of better weapons to recruit new members was a necessity.
Farhad Hashimi, head of the KhAD, a graduate of Colgate University in New York, was considered to be very intelligent and very powerful in all aspects of the organization. His close association with the KGB was purely political, enabling him to bolster his own self image, remain in power, and obtain modern day weapons — weapons he might one day use against the Soviet Union.
Hashimi’s footsteps echoed as he walked along a passageway in the headquarters building. This day he wore a typical outfit known as a perahon tunban, consisting of a knee length light-colored shirt and dark, baggy trousers, along with a vest. As a government official, he also wore a cap made of sheepskin.
Stopping just outside the doorway of the main entrance, he looked toward the mountains where snow had already begun to melt, but along with spring rain, many roads were washed out, making passage difficult. He put his arms behind his back, as he perused the inner courtyard. Guards walked the perimeter and meandered through the entire grounds, either carrying AK47s or RPG launchers.
A sound of far-off gunfire and explosions made him retreat further from the doorway, just as an MI-24 attack helicopter flew overhead, called in by a Russian patrol coming under fire outside a small village. Fighting between Soviets, Afghans, Mujahideen had not improved; if anything, it had worsened. Hashimi needed weapons desperately, and not used or weapons confiscated from other wars. He wanted modern weapons.
An all-terrain vehicle, a UAZ-469, similar to a Jeep, drove into the courtyard then stopped close to the building. Two men got out, both wearing Soviet Union army uniforms. Major Viktor Zubarev, KGB, and his security guard and interpreter, Sergeant Tresinsky.
Zubarev was about 5’11” and slim. His uniform, shoes, cap were impeccable. The way he carried himself and his dark brooding eyes evoked authority. He took long, slow strides as he walked toward Hashimi.
Today the Afghan was to learn whether the Soviets would deliver the weapons as promised. No one, including the Soviets, seemed to have complete knowledge or details of the weapons, just that they were developed by the Americans and considered top secret.
What he suspected, though, was the Soviets weren’t going to hand them over without some form of payment. He assumed that was one reason why Zubarev was meeting with him. It would be interesting to learn what kind of price Russia would put on five top secret American weapons.
As the Russians approached Hashimi, two Afghan guards took their places closer to the entrance. Hashimi motioned for Zubarev to follow him. They would conduct their business as they walked along the passageway, staying out of perimeter rooms as a precaution in case of attack.