Tom sat behind the wheel of their beat-up white Nissan watching the palace from behind a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “I didn’t trust that skeevy motherfucker, did you?”
Jerry held up a finger, listening to the real-time intelligence he was receiving in his earpiece via satellite from Creech Air Force Base back in Indian Springs, Nevada. Creech was home to the 432nd Wing, where the pilots of the UAVs (unmanned aerial vehicles) did the actual flying from the safety of their air-conditioned offices. The UAV loitering thirty thousand feet above them was watching the palace to be sure the intermediary didn’t slip out undetected through a different exit point.
“Okay, they’re coming,” Jerry said. “Should be passing through the main gate any second.”
They were parked down the street where they looked like any other white Nissan against the cluttered backdrop of the city. With the UAV on station, it wouldn’t be necessary to maintain constant visual contact with the intermediary. CenCom would feed them directions if they got tied up in traffic. The trunk lid of their car had been painted flat black to make them stand out from above.
Tom shifted into drive. “Here we go.” He allowed the black SUV to slip out of sight before pulling off.
They drove through the streets of Kabul for about twenty minutes, headed roughly southeast, until CenCom advised that the SUV was turning into an abandoned industrial center near the outskirts of town. Tom and Jerry pulled up and watched as the SUV drove straight across the complex and into a large warehouse half the size of a city block. Two casually dressed men with AK-47s over their shoulders pulled down the large overhead door right behind the SUV.
Tom shifted into park. “Those two pricks look like Taliban to you?”
Jerry shook his head. “CenCom, be advised two men in khakis with AK-47s were waiting here to meet Jackal.” Jackal was the intermediary’s code name.
They sat watching from across the street. As per the agreement, the location of the payoff had not been shared with the US Embassy. Kidnap for ransom was routine business in Kabul, and this was the standard procedure generally followed in order to secure the release of Afghan officials and wealthy citizens. With a few exceptions, the captive parties were always returned within twenty-four hours of payment, and for this reason, the US Embassy had advised State that it was probably best to stick with the system already in place if they wanted to facilitate the return of Sandra Brux as quickly and quietly as possible.
Tom and Jerry had been the only modification to that system, the ace up the sleeve of a US State Department very much wanting to send the message that the kidnap and rape of US servicewomen for profit was not a business that ambitious young terrorists around the world should aspire to. It was believed that leaving a bunch of dead bagmen at the scene of an exchange would help to send that message loud and clear, but this could occur only if Sandra was exchanged directly for the cash. There were a number of people within the CIA who believed very strongly that Sandra was likely to be there. Because why hold on to such a dangerous captive any longer than absolutely necessary — particularly if the ransom was paid and everyone was following the tried-and-true intermediary system?
“Think she’s in there?” Jerry ventured, sitting back in his seat with his boot against the dash.
Tom shook his head. “Not a fucking chance. This whole thing stinks like shit. Where the fuck do those assholes think they’re going with all that cash that we can’t follow? They’re not dealing with the Afghan government. They’re dealing with the fucking CIA. How the fuck are they going to shake a UAV?”
“Well, we’re talking about stupid mountain people,” Jerry reminded him.
“Did those pricks with the AKs look like stupid mountain people to you? And even if they are, Jackal knows all about the eye in the sky. He didn’t even ask if we’d be watching. All he did was smile, like he knew something we didn’t. Fucker’s up to something. I know he is.”
“You think he’s on the take?”
“All bagmen are on the take.”
“But Karzai handpicked this guy.”
“And where the fuck is he?” Tom said. “Conveniently out of the fucking country. I’m telling you, I don’t like this. Advise CenCom we’re moving in for a closer look.”
“But we’re—”
Tom checked his weapon. “Get ready to move your ass.”
Jerry sat up in the seat. “CenCom, be advised… Tom wants a closer look. This doesn’t look right.” He listened a moment, then looked at Tom. “They’re asking Langley for clearance.”
“Fuck clearance,” Tom said, getting out. “While Langley’s busy scratching their balls, this thing’s busy getting fucked up. Let’s go.”
Jerry got out of the car and started across the street after Tom. “CenCom, be advised we’re heading in for a closer look.”
“They can see us, numb nuts.”
Jerry laughed. “Kiss my ass. I’m doing my job.”
They kept an eye out as they trotted across the lot, watching for lookouts, but they saw no one at all.
“These people feel totally secure,” Jerry said.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Tom answered. “That’s Karzai’s guy in there, and if he’s in bed with the fucking HIK, who’s he got to be afraid of?”
They headed down the far side of the warehouse. There were no windows or cameras to worry about, so they moved fast, hands inside their jackets and ready to go guns-up at the first sign of trouble.
“Hey,” Jerry said. “CenCom just got clearance from Langley.”
“Good for CenCom.” Tom stopped at the man door a few hundred feet down the wall, hoping they’d gone far enough down from the main entrance. “All right, get your ass wired up. We’re going in.”
He tried the knob, but it was locked. “Shit! Do your thing.”
Jerry took a knee in front of the door and pulled a pick set from his pocket. Anyone who spotted them now would know something was up, so Tom took the MP7 from inside his jacket. Jerry had the door unlocked in a little over a minute, then stood back so Tom could precede him into the building. They slipped inside to find the building was lit by skylight. Light was shadowy along the walls where an overhead storage level ran the length of the building on both sides. Both levels were crowded with untold volumes of odds and ends junk, including pieces of cars and trucks, used earthmover tires, aircraft fuselages, various wooden crates, empty wooden spools, and stacks of empty pallets.
The two commandos moved in and out of the junk, keeping close to the wall as they negotiated their way back in the direction they had come, hearing hurried, bustling movement up ahead. They closed to within fifty feet to see five different vehicles of different models lined up, cars and vans, all of them nondescript. Jackal stood near a row of tables where close to twenty men had already divided the afghanis into five piles of equal amounts and were now stuffing the piles into five different army duffel bags, apparently to be loaded into the five waiting vehicles for transport to parts unknown.
“This look normal to you?” Tom said quietly.
“Hell if I know,” Jerry said with a shrug. “What do you want to do?”
Tom was busy studying Jackal’s posture and facial expressions. He was a man of medium build, late forties, with dark hair and thick dark eyebrows. He wasn’t carrying himself like a guy playing the role of an intermediary; rather he looked a whole lot more like an overseer. What was more, he looked concerned, and he kept checking his watch.