American Operator Read online

  After they’d been waved through, the German parked the Land Cruiser behind the lead SUV on the side of the road to wait for the rest of their convoy to clear the checkpoint.

  “They certainly don’t seem happy to see us,” Dempsey said.

  “Yes, well, our very presence is an accusation, isn’t it?” the German replied. “We are not here to prove that the olive farmers were using chemical weapons. The Syrian Army is the accused party, and they believe they have a right to fight ISIS and defend their sovereign cities by any means they deem necessary.”

  “Even with chemicals that kill their own children?” Theobold said from the back, anger in his voice.

  “I’m not saying I agree they have such a right,” the driver said. “I am merely explaining their irritation and suspicion at our presence.”

  That same irritation and suspicion was going to make tonight’s work that much more dangerous for Dempsey and the DIA agent. Apparently, not only did they have to worry about ISIS sleepers in the city who would love to kidnap and behead them, but the Syrian Army was chomping at the bit to make an example of them, too. Should they overstep their bounds and get caught—say, for example, sneaking off from the group to “take samples” in the north—then Dempsey and his DIA counterpart could find themselves in a Syrian detention cell . . . or worse.

  If the operation were simple, he mused, then the DNI would not have sent me.

  Dempsey blew air through his teeth and looked out the window as their UN convoy was finally cleared and got underway. The town of al-Bab had the same shade of brown dirt and the same shade of brown stucco buildings commonplace through much of the Middle East. The roads were paved, and he spied the occasional pop of green. Unlike Aleppo, in al-Bab, not every tree and park had been bombed into oblivion. Children and young adults waved at the white trucks with their blue stenciled letters—the same trucks with the same blue letters that had brought food, medicine, and support to them during their time of greatest need. With the battle for the city now over, much of the local population had returned to restart their lives. But the scars of the yearlong battle with ISIS were evident in every direction he looked. So much loss, destruction, and misery . . . yet there was still hope.

  When they’d reached their staging area—a small dirt parking lot—the drivers parked in a loose semicircle, and the team members exited their SUVs and assembled. A Syrian military truck that Dempsey had observed following them pulled up onto the sidewalk and parked fifty meters away. Dempsey eyed the soldiers, most of whom seemed disinterested, dragging on cigarettes and chatting with jocularity. One soldier, however, met his gaze with hard eyes and didn’t look away.

  “All right, everyone, check your gear s’il vous plaît, and then divide into the sector teams as briefed,” said a stout balding man dressed in a black shirt and khaki cargo pants. He spoke English but with a heavy French accent. “You must wear your UN vests at all times; this is for your safety.”

  “And to clearly mark us as targets,” said one of the bearded security men. Everyone laughed, the scientists among them nervously, and the “contractors” with the fatalism common in all former military men, regardless of nationality.

  “Yes, well, it’s not a joke,” the Frenchman continued with a hint of irritation. “Tu vois, the Syrian Army is watching us. Don’t break the rules; the consequences to the UN are severe if we fail in this. Okay, so we have three inspection teams and one testing team.” He paused briefly to nod at Theobold. “Dr. Theobold, it is my understanding that you will not need additional security because your assistant serves in this role . . . ça va?”

  “Yes, that is correct, but I will need an interpreter.”

  “Of course, of course,” the Frenchman said. Then, looking around, he said, “Kadir, I believe you have the assignment?”

  A thin dark-skinned man standing nearby raised his hand in acknowledgment.

  “Good, good,” the French team leader said. “Okay, everyone, gather into your teams; check and calibrate your equipment. Then we divide and conquer. The objective is to collect all the necessary data by morning and be on our way. Good luck and let’s get to work.”

  Dempsey followed Theobold back to the Land Cruiser and opened the tailgate. As he did, a man dressed in a gray shirt and dark trousers approached.

  “I am Kadir,” the man said, walking up to Theobold first. He extended his hand in greeting. “It is my pleasure to be working with you.”

  “It is our pleasure, Kadir,” Theobold said and shook the interpreter’s hand warmly. The DIA man played his role as the genial scientist to perfection, with no hint of familiarity or recognition. Dempsey suspected, however, that Kadir had been a by-name request for this operation—probably an asset he’d run for years. “And this is Peter,” Theobold added, looking at Dempsey, “my assistant.”

  “Ah yes, the rock,” Kadir said and extended a hand.

  Dempsey shook it but raised his eyebrows. “Sorry?”

  “Your name—it means ‘the rock,’ yes? Like the Christian apostle who formed the church? You actually look like a rock, my friend,” Kadir said with a genuine laugh. “You are a large man—a boulder maybe? I have many Christian friends. You should know this.”

  “And I owe my life many times over to brave Muslim men and women who were partners in the field like we are today,” Dempsey said, smiling warmly.

  “Very good. I think we will be friends in no time,” Kadir said, grinning. Then, turning to Theobold, he asked, “Do you need my help with that?”

  “Nah, I got it,” Theobold said, sliding a large silver case toward the edge of the tailgate. He indexed the thumb-size wheels on an integrated combination lock and then opened the lid. Neatly positioned inside, secured in precision-cut gray foam cradles, sat a chemical residue detector, three different “sniffer” wand attachments, multiple battery packs, and a tablet computer.

  Dempsey resisted the compulsion to lift the fake bottom out of the massively oversize case and survey his own equipment—three short-barreled assault rifles, a half-dozen fragmentation grenades, eight IR strobes to mark locations and themselves if they needed the cavalry, and a sniper rifle broken down into three compact pieces. The SEAL in him desperately wanted to conduct an inventory, but that was impossible here and now. Until nightfall, he’d just have to be satisfied with the knowledge that he’d packed the case himself and it had been in their possession ever since.

  Theobold made a show of waving one of the wands around, then connected the tablet to another cylindrical wand, which he stuck into the dirt behind the truck. Some more tapping on the tablet and then he announced, “Excellent. This is truly amazing technology.”

  Watching him work, Dempsey almost forgot that the DIA man was playacting. Theobold probably knew no more about physics or chemistry than he did, but the man sure knew how to put on a show. Dempsey turned and scanned the two dozen UN workers as they performed their own baseline calibrations. Why anyone would want to be a scientist was beyond him. He was here risking his life to save Amanda Allen; they were here to collect samples of dirt.

  Oh well, he thought, different strokes for different folks.

  He sighed and resisted the urge to check his watch.

  Just a few more hours of playacting, and then they could finally get to work doing what they had actually come to do—find Amanda Allen.

  CHAPTER 12

  Vacation Villa of Sergi Kartevelian

  Sukhumi, De Jure Capital of the Autonomous Republic of Abkhazia

  Northwest of Georgia on the Black Sea

  1851 Local Time

  Valerian Kobak selected a Medjool date from the bowl on the table. Using his thumbnails, he split the date lengthwise and extracted the oblong pit. He put the dried fruit in his mouth and slowly chewed, savoring the sweet caramel flavor while his three hostages sat gagged and bound to chairs across the table, watching.

  “Mmmm . . . nature’s candy. Why everyone is buying cookies and candy when they could just be eating dates—makes
no sense to me. What do you think, Sergi?” he said, fixing his gaze on the middle-aged Georgian media tycoon. On Sergi’s right sat his wife, handsome, dark-haired Melania, and on his left his mistress, young blonde Makayla. Sergi nodded nervously and grunted, unable to speak because of the ball gag strapped to his face. Valerian cocked an eyebrow at him. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

  Sergi tried again, articulating nothing but nonsense while emoting desperation quite admirably.

  Ordering gagged hostages to speak was juvenile and callow but so damn amusing that Valerian couldn’t help himself. In his line of work, opportunities for levity were few and far between. Moments like this helped him retain his humanity. Whenever he made himself a blunt instrument of the trade, that’s when “the feeling” came back . . .

  The hollowing.

  The desolation.

  On the one hand, he had to hand it to Sergi. The old sly dog was boning two remarkable women—albeit remarkable for entirely different reasons—while running a billion-dollar media empire. On the other hand, he’d been dumb enough to pick a mistress whose name started with the same first letter as his wife’s. How he’d managed to keep their names straight in bed defied logic. Unfortunately for Sergi, this would be the last time he got to be with both the women he loved at the same time.

  With a theatrical sigh, Valerian pulled a small black zipper case from his back pocket and set it on the table next to the bowl of dates, drawing attentive stares from all three of them. He unzipped the case and folded it open, revealing a hypodermic syringe and several glass vials of liquid.

  He picked up another date and held it up for inspection. “I’m sure the three of you are wondering why I gathered you here. I realize it’s awkward, but keep in mind, there are no secrets in a love triangle, only lies,” he said, pitting the date and then setting it uneaten on the table. “Fortunately, once a lie is exposed to the light, it withers and dies; it cannot crawl back into the shadows. Nod if you understand me.”

  He looked at them each in turn. Sergi and Makayla both nodded, but Melania just glared.

  “What is important to understand is that relationships, even dysfunctional love triangles like this one, can be surprisingly stable . . . so long as lies don’t erode their foundation. Now, Sergi, you’ve been telling lies. Lots of lies. Lies to Melania. Lies to Makayla. Lies to your friends and shareholders. And lies to the public. Most of your lies are inconsequential and of no concern to us, but some are very troublesome, particularly the lies your newspapers, magazines, and television stations are spreading about Russian corruption and President Petrov’s agenda. You have made a dangerous game of undermining Russia’s interests in this region, and the Kremlin has taken notice. You see, Sergi, this is not the only love triangle you’ve managed to involve yourself in. Your media company, Kartevelian Enterprises, is trying to disrupt the love triangle between Russia, Georgia, and Abkhazia. You must know we cannot possibly tolerate this.”

  He walked over and stood behind the trio, where he placed the palm of his left hand on top of Sergi’s head and his right hand on top of Melania’s head.

  “In this metaphor, Sergi, you are Russia, and Melania is Georgia. Makayla, over there, is Abkhazia. Georgia thinks Russia is too controlling and has decided to distance herself from her one-time partner. Georgia’s callous rejection has wounded Russia, and so because of her disaffection, Russia naturally sought congress with another willing partner.”

  On that cue, he turned both their heads to look at Makayla.

  “And that willing partner is Abkhazia. Now I know what you’re thinking—Abkhazia is not a separate country; it is part of Georgia. But Russia says no. Ukraine thought it owned Crimea, but Crimea wanted to be with Russia, not Ukraine. It is the same with Abkhazia. The problem is, Georgia refuses to let Russia have a separate and loving relationship with Abkhazia. Georgia thinks it can control Abkhazia and tell Russia what it can and cannot do. This cannot go on.”

  He removed his hands and walked back to the table, where he turned to eye them again as a group. His expression turned grave, and he shook his head.

  “The media outlets owned and controlled by Kartevelian Enterprises have been very vocal and active in their editorial support for Georgia. To speak so disrespectfully of Russia is annoying, but to try and place a wedge between Russia and Abkhazia is intolerable. This cannot stand. Fortunately, it’s not too late,” he said, his mood suddenly brightening. “It’s not too late to reverse course and start telling the truth. So here’s what’s going to happen. Kartevelian Enterprises is going to cease propaganda operations in Abkhazia and sell its local holdings to a Russian buyer who will contact you in the coming days. It’s time to let Abkhazians make decisions of sovereignty without Georgian interference. If Abkhazia wants to follow Crimea and rejoin Russia, then you have no business trying to stand in its way. Do you understand, Sergi?”

  Sergi nodded and mumbled something.

  “Very good. It appears we’ve reached an understanding,” Valerian said, nodding back. Then he paused and raised his index finger, as if having an epiphany. “When I was new at my job, I would often leave a negotiation such as this believing that an understanding had been reached, only to later find out that the other party had lied to me. In those cases, I had no choice but to return and start the negotiations over from scratch. The terms were never as agreeable the second time, and everyone parted with bad feelings. So now I do things differently. Now I make sure that my clients have a very clear understanding of the agreement. I make sure they don’t forget the terms, and I make sure I don’t have to come back. In my experience, the most effective way to accomplish this is by taking away something my client loves. That way, the understanding is cemented in their memory, and the client understands the future consequence if I have to return.”

  Valerian paused. He could see their fear now, practically emanating like a vapor he could inhale. What came next was his favorite part: the choosing. It wasn’t really a choice—he already knew whom he was going to kill, but they didn’t know that. To properly control Sergi moving forward, there could be only one choice.

  “Sergi,” he said, meeting the mogul’s eyes, “because of the lies you’ve told, because of the way you have mistreated Russia, today you must pay a consequence. One of these women you love dies. You decide who.”

  Sergi’s eyes went wide with panic, and his pupils darted right, then left, in a frantic, blubbering panic.

  Interesting . . . He looked right first. His heart is still with Melania after all.

  “I agree with your choice,” Valerian said, turning his attention to the black case. He selected the glass vial and filled the syringe with a lethal dose of fentanyl. While he prepped the injection, Sergi thrashed against his bindings, sobbing and begging.

  Valerian set the syringe next to the pitted Medjool date and then walked over to Melania and undid the straps of her ball gag, releasing it from her mouth. Then he stood in front of her. “Do you have anything you would like to say to me or your husband before you die?”

  With composure the likes of which he rarely witnessed, she said, “I know you, son of Georgia. Proud chin, strong jaw, slate-blue eyes—you are one of us, except you . . . you are a moghalate.” The corners of her lips curled up into a defiant smirk, and she added, “You think they will accept you? You think they will let you rise? You will never be Russian. You are their dog. A pet. Nothing more.”

  Valerian nodded. “All true, except you are wrong on one detail, proud, beautiful daughter of Georgia. I’m Abkhazian.” Her eyes went wide at the admission, and it left her speechless. He picked up the date and the syringe off the table and said, “Do you have any parting words for your husband or his whore?”

  Melania swallowed and then looked at Sergi. “You loved me once. Remember that, and remember why we started this company. My murder changes nothing. Find your courage, husband. Protect our homeland.”

  Sergi nodded to her, crying.

  “Okay, it’s t
ime, Melania,” Valerian said. “Would you like one last carnal pleasure before you die? Something sweet to savor as you leave this world?”

  She looked at him aghast but then hesitantly opened her mouth and accepted the piece of fruit. A tear ran down her cheek as she chewed and he injected her with the powerful synthetic opiate. Sergi and Makayla watched the execution in stunned, helpless silence.

  Melania Kartevelian died ten heartbeats later.

  Valerian packed the syringe away, closed the zipper case, and stuffed it back in his pocket. He selected a date from the bowl for himself, removed the pit, and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, he looked at Sergi and said, “Melania died from an opiate overdose, an addiction she has been struggling with for a long time. You’ve kept this hidden from the world, of course, but now the secret will come out. You will mourn her for an appropriate period of time. After that, you will propose to and marry the very beautiful and very Russian Makayla here. With time and a newfound understanding, your views on Georgian-Russian relations will change. Russians and Georgians are strongest when we work together, just like man and woman in a healthy marriage.”

  Sergi stared at him, red-eyed murder in his gaze.

  “Sergi, remember what I said about our agreement. The first terms are the best terms. If I have to come back to renegotiate, you won’t like it. Nod if you understand.”

  This time, Sergi nodded.

  “Excellent,” he said with a smile. “Good day, comrade. And I’m truly sorry for your loss.”