2
I AM NOT a very nice guy. That’s not my job. They don’t call me when they want to make people happy.
Same goes for the two guys sharing the ride with me — First Sergeant Bradley “Top” Sims and Master Sergeant Harvey “Bunny” Rabbit. Like me, they were ex-US military. Like me they didn’t work for anyone in the US of A anymore. Like me they weren’t all that nice.
We’re good guys, but “nice” isn’t a job requirement. For what we do. All three of us were big men, though Bunny abused that privilege and towered over us at six and a half feet. Top was an even six and I was six-two. Bunny could bench press both of us and have some room for one or both of the Dakotas. Big moose of a kid from Orange County. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes, a surfer’s lazy smile and a good heart, unless you got between him and his mission objective.
Top was the old man of the team, clocking in somewhere north of forty and lying about it. He wasn’t slowing down much that I could see, and the only evidence of all those hard years was the network of scar tissue — old and new — patterned across his dark brown skin.
My girlfriend likes to tell people I look like the guy who played Captain America in the Marvel movies. I don’t. He looks like a pretty nice guy and I seriously doubt he’s ever drawn blood with bullets, blades or hands. I have. Sure, I’m a blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boy from Baltimore, but when people look me in the eye their gaze tends to shift away. The ones who don’t are either bad guys making poor life choices, or fellow soldiers who have walked through the valley of the shadow.
We were on my private jet crossing Turkish airspace on the way to Turkmenistan. I’ve been all over the world — all three of us have, separately and together — but none of us had been there. And we didn’t know why we were going there.
There was a soft bing-bong and the pilot’s voice said, “Captain Ledger, the big man is on line.”
Bunny reached over to the high-def screen mounted on the wall. The cabin was sound-proofed and we all had cold beers.
A face filled the screen. Church is a big, blocky man with dark hair going gray. He wears tinted glasses because he prefers not to have people read him — and eyes are a common “tell.” His suits are more expensive than my car and he wears black silk gloves to hide severe frostbite damage from a previous case.
Once upon a time Church was some kind of high-level field operator. A shooter and a spy. I don’t know all the details, but from what I’ve been able to piece together he was a true and legendary badass. He scares the people who scare me. So, even guys like us sit like school boys and pay attention.
“Gentlemen,” Church said, “are you familiar with this?”
The screen split so that a new image appeared, showing a large, round hole clearly blazing with fire.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s a bathroom selfie of me after Rudy made that chili with ghost peppers.”
A beat. Church said nothing. The weight of his disapproval was crushing. Bunny stifled a grin and Top gave me a slow, sad shake of his head. I am nominally the boss, but Top’s usually the adult in any given room.
“No,” I said contritely, “I don’t know what it is. Other than a burning hole, what is it?”
“It’s called the Gates of Hell.”
“Sounds right,” said Bunny.
“It’s also known as the ‘Door to Hell’,” said Church. “The official name is the Darvaza gas crater. It’s located near the village of Derweze in the Karakum Desert of Turkmenistan, roughly two hundred and sixty kilometers north of the capital city of Ashgabat. This pit is what’s left of a natural gas field that collapsed into an underground cavern. The collapse released clouds of methane. The team of geologists apparently believed that the methane could easily be burned off, and so they ignited it in hopes of reclaiming the natural gas deposit. That was one of a number of strikingly ill-considered decisions and the pit has been burning continuously since 1971. It shows no sign of burning out anytime soon.”
“Well now, that’s a level of stupid all its own, isn’t it?” said Top sourly.
“It creates a challenge to sympathy,” admitted Church.
“All that said, why am I looking at… this? What do you want me to do with a giant fire pit? Shoot it? Try and piss in it to put it out?”
Church reached out of shot and returned with a cookie. He always had a tray of cookies, mostly vanilla wafers. Once in a while he’ll add some Oreos or, if he’s in a particularly jocular mood, animal crackers. He bit a piece of the wafer, chewed it, studied me. Then he picked up his narrative without actually answering my question. “The site draws a fair number of tourists each year and has become something of a bucket-list item for world travelers.”
“It’s not on my bucket list,” Bunny said.
I nodded. “And you still haven’t told me why we’re going there.”
“Three days ago, a key American diplomat, James Mercer, went missing at the site,” said Church. “He is ostensibly the senior aide to the ambassador but is actually with the Agency. His brief is to track illegal shipments of technology and other items passing though that region.”
Top held up a hand. “Don’t mean to be contrary, but are we working missing persons cases now? Can’t the CIA mind its own missing sheep?”
“The situation is much more complicated than that, First Sergeant,” said Church. “Two bodies were discovered yesterday at the rim of the crater.” He explained about the murders of a local guide and the diplomat’s driver. “The embassy’s security team was able to take ownership of the scene thanks to a little Agency bullying. They did a quick forensics workup on the knife used to stab the guide and the handgun used on the driver. Both had clear fingerprints, and both sets match those of James Mercer. And Mercer’s blood was all over the handles of each weapon, so it’s clear he was injured as well. There is no sign of a struggle in either case. Just clean kills.”
“Um—” began Bunny, then shook his head. “Nope, got nothing.”
“Have local police been involved in a search?” asked Top.
“Yes. And the military police — theirs and ours. Bug and his computer team have done deep searches on Mercer. None of his credit cards have been used and facial recognition hasn’t picked him up on airport cameras. There are no traffic cams in Turkmenistan, and very few CCTV cams, so Bug is limited there. It seems clear, though, that Mercer has either gone to ground somewhere or—”
“Or maybe jumped into the fire pit?” Bunny suggested, and Church nodded.
“If he’s toast,” I said, “they don’t need us there. So, you’re thinking he’s in a bolt hole or safe house somewhere?”
“We have to accept that as a possibility.”
“Does the Agency think their man’s been turned?” I asked.
“Unknown. I’ve pulled some strings to have the case taken away from them.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” A new image flashed onto the screen. It was of a large page that had been torn from a book. There was one ragged edge and a slit in the middle. Blood mostly obscured the page, thickest near the slit. Church explained that the page had been pinned to the dead guide’s chest with the knife.
We all leaned forward to study the page. I’m really good with languages, but it looked like chicken scratches.
“What language is that?” asked Bunny. “It’s all Greek to me.”
“It’s not Greek, Farm Boy,” said Top.
“I know that. It’s just an expression.”
“The language is part of the reason I asked for this case,” said Church quietly. “It is an extremely rare subdialect of Sumerian. An attempt by later writers to modify cuneiform.”