Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (19 page)

A sliver of the moonlight broke through a tear in the clouds. The dark silhouette of the airplane became visible as it started its descent. Justin noticed the high wings, the tricycle landing gear, the vertical tail and concluded it was indeed a Cessna. He ran to the jeep and switched on his headlights, then drove to the side of the runway. The light beams would illuminate the airstrip but not blind the pilot.

The Cessna dropped over the runway in a wobbly pattern. It veered first to the left, then to the right. Its nose was coming down at a high angle. Justin prayed the pilot would quickly make the correction. The airplane rumble was irregular, the engine coughing and spurting like a drunken man in a fit of rage. The airplane leveled off when it was still a few dozen feet over the ground. Justin thought it was still going at a much higher speed than necessary for landing. If the pilot did not slow down, he was going to overshoot the runway and end up in the thorn bushes.

The airplane lost some altitude and speed at the same time. It seemed as if it was just hovering there for a moment. Then it came down fast, bouncing on the hard-packed soil. The gears absorbed some of the shock, but the airplane shot up a couple of times. It zipped through the runway, raising a storm of dust behind its tail. The brakes did their job, eventually, and the Cessna stopped less than a dozen feet away from the jeep.

The pilot opened his door and he jumped out. A black man wearing a Manchester United red cap, large Ray-Ban aviator shades, a white t-shirt, and black cargo pants approached him, running away from the settling dust. A thick golden chain fit for a retriever hung loose around his skinny neck. He had no weapons in his hands, but Justin was not sure about any pistols hidden behind his back or in his pockets. When he was about ten steps away from Justin, he shouted in Arabic, “Are you the man I’m picking up?”

Justin tightened his grip around his AK slightly raised toward the pilot. “That depends,” he replied. “What’s your name?”

The man grinned. “Ibrahim. My name’s Ibrahim.”

“OK, what are you doing here?”

“My order was to pick up a man needing a ride to Kismayo.”

Justin liked the reply. “I’m the one you’re picking up.”

Ibrahim nodded. “Let’s go.”

“In a minute.”

Justin walked backwards to his jeep, turned off the headlights and the engine, and took his knapsack. He kept his eyes on Ibrahim the whole time.

“Was that gunfire aimed at you?” Justin asked when he returned.

“Yeah. But I was way beyond their reach. Stupid drunks, wasting their bullets.”

The airplane’s red paint was peeling off, and some of the body showed signs of corrosion. The entire exterior looked timeworn. The pilot’s window had a huge crack in the middle. Justin wondered how many flight hours the airplane had clocked up and whether it had ever had an overhaul.

Justin opened the door and climbed in the back seat, behind the pilot. Half of the instruments on the dashboard seemed to be out of order. The interior was rundown, and the panels were threadbare. The gray fabric of the seats was held together by duct tape, covered in scratches, cracks, and stains.

“Don’t let the looks fool you,” Ibrahim said. “I’ve flown all over Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia. And why don’t you sit in the front?” He pointed to the seat next to him.

“More comfort.”

Justin shifted his body to avoid one of the seat springs from pressing into his thigh. He slid his AK with the barrel pointing to Ibrahim’s seat.
In case he makes a move.
He only wished the bullet would not go through and pierce the Cessna’s windshield.

“Ready?” Ibrahim asked.

Justin nodded. He groped around for a seatbelt but found only a couple of oil-stained rags.

Ibrahim steered the airplane around, then pushed forward the throttle. The Cessna picked up speed, rattling as if some parts were going to fall off at any moment. The engine clattered, and its vibrations send toppling a few cans in the back of the airplane. Ibrahim pulled on the yoke, gently and slowly—his only gesture that impressed Justin so far—and the Cessna lifted off the ground. It wavered at first, like a duckling in its first flight, then it became steadier.

Justin stared at the black abyss falling behind, then up toward the bright stars.
Romanov would have to do better than this. Ibrahim is enough to get me out of this hole, but for the operation in Yemen, I’ll need some true professionals.

Nairobi, Kenya

September 26, 4:00 a.m. local time

Carrie woke up to a car engine revving just outside the safe house, followed by screeching tires. She threw off her sheets and reached for her Browning 9mm on the nightstand. She listened for other noises, while holding the pistol in her left hand. Avoiding the large bedroom window, she tiptoed out to the hall. She stayed away from the line of fire in case someone was about to start blasting through the reinforced steel door. She stopped and listened. No footsteps or other noises came from outside.

She relaxed a bit, then moved on to sweep the two-bedroom apartment. All windows were intact. There were no intruders.
Is there such a thing as too much paranoia?
she wondered. The thought reminded her of Justin, always suspicious of almost everyone, always expecting betrayal. And it happened sometimes.

Who is this traitor? Why target him? Why now? Justin, wherever you are, please be safe.

She took her gun to the kitchen and made tea. While waiting for it to steep, she logged on to the secure servers of CIS station in Nairobi for any updates on her assignment. Last night, McClain had authorized her operation to stop Justin or as he liked to call him “that rogue agent.” McClain had partnered her with Nathan Smyth, one of the agents stationed in Cairo. Carrie had worked with Nathan a couple of times, and she had only good impressions about his professionalism. Carrie was going to meet up with him in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. They would fly together to Sa’dah, about one hundred and fifty miles north.

The purpose of their assignment in Yemen was to avoid causing the Service any public embarrassment. Covert operations were supposed to stay that way, but the operation in Somalia was no longer a secret. The news about the dead Americans had not hit the international media yet, but Carrie could see the clouds gathering on the horizon. Nairobi would soon be teeming with reporters.

McClain had given her no specific instructions about the amount of force to use in order to stop Justin. “Capture or kill” was, of course, the usual order in such a situations. Carrie knew about more than one occasion of rogue agents captured by the Service. She had no knowledge of cases when Service operatives had been killed by their own fellow agents. But Justin was a friend, more than a friend, a man she had once dated, and whom for a brief period she had thought was her soul mate. He had been her partner in one too many operations. Nathan was also a close associate of Justin. Carrie could read the subtext and the vagueness in McClain’s order: find him and bring him home
alive.
She hoped Nathan had received the same order.

Carrie printed some of the files McClain had sent her, so she could read them during the taxi ride to CIS station. Then she sipped her tea, while reading one of the reports. McClain had confirmed that according to the Service’s files some of the people killed during the shootout in Somalia were known or suspected al-Shabaab members. Most of the phone numbers Justin had retrieved belonged to other al-Shabaab members or supporters.

McClain had talked to Deputy Director Adams of NCS. Adams, as expected, had denied having any knowledge about Yusuf holding an American passport. To him and to CIA, Hassan Khalif Yusuf was a Somali terrorist, one of al-Shabaab’s masterminds. She did not know if McClain had pressed Adams on the intelligence claiming Yusuf was looking for a doctor, which, according to Justin, had proved to be false. McClain had provided no information about the boxes of the American-made assault rifles they had discovered in Somalia.

We’ll have to figure these out when we get back to Ottawa.

She caught herself thinking in plural.
We. Justin and I. Yes. Justin and I.

Chapter Fourteen

Somewhere over the Red Sea

September 27, 8:00 a.m. local time

After the bone-rattling Cessna flight in warlike conditions, the comfort of the Gulfstream G650 airplane was the right cure for Justin’s sleep-deprived, dog-tired body. Romanov had thrown his weight around and had convinced one of his Chinese business partners to lend him his private jet.

“He’s a good friend of mine,” Romanov had said.

Justin wished he had such friends. He was the only passenger aboard the luxurious airplane with two gorgeous Malaysian female flight attendants completely at his disposal.

Justin cleaned himself up in the spacious washroom. He shaved and changed into a fresh set of lounge pants and t-shirt, courtesy of the flight attendants. He was served a fresh-made hot breakfast—eggs and bacon—complete with orange juice and hot coffee. The Chinese businessman had tailored the airplane’s interior to suit his needs, with extra-large seats and a divan that became a double bed. As soon as he lay down on the cozy bed, he drifted into a deep, heavy sleep, before the flight attendant could even draw the curtains cocooning his bed.

He woke up disoriented by the low hum of the airplane. It took him a few seconds to gather his bearings. A blue fluffy blanket was wrapped around him. Justin raised himself on his elbows and looked out of the large window. An endless field of white cotton-ball clouds and the occasional speck of clear blue. He squinted and realized it was the ocean, the sea to be more precise, and not the sky.
The Red Sea. We’re getting close.

He sat on his bed, once again amazed at its softness.
Those were probably my best two hours of sleep in a long time,
he thought, glancing at his wristwatch he had placed on the nightstand. He smoothed his hair with his hands, stood up, and pulled one of the curtains to the side.

“Hello, Mr. Hall,” he heard a soft, sexy voice. “Did you have a good rest?”

One of the flight attendants, whose exotic-sounding name he could not remember. She was on her feet, a few steps away and smiling at him.

“I . . . yes, I did,” he replied and stepped out of the bedroom.

“Coffee?” asked the other flight attendant. She was standing next to the galley with a pot of coffee in her right hand.

“Hmmm, sure, thank you.”

“Sugar? Honey? Cream?”

“No, just black coffee.”

“Of course.”

He wrapped his fingers around the white porcelain cup she handed him and stumbled into the closest seat.

“Have you seen my—”

A brown briefcase materialized from thin air before he could finish his sentence. The flight attendant who had first greeted him placed it on the table in front of him.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, smiled. “You’re welcome. If you need anything else, let us know.”

“Will do.”

She retreated to a seat just off the galley. Justin opened the briefcase and retrieved a thick file that was delivered to him prior to boarding the Gulfstream. Romanov had put together basic information about the team—eleven men and one woman—waiting for Justin in Sana’a. Eight of the men were former members of
Spetsnaz,
the Russian elite special forces. They had worked for the GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate—the most feared of all Soviet Union secret services—until it was disbanded, its command transferred to the Russian Army. Justin flipped through the photographs, scanning through the files. He did not recognize any of the faces or the names. Most of them had served all over the world. Afghanistan. Chechnya. Georgia.

The other three men and the woman were identified as current members of Alpha Group, one of the Spetsnaz forces of the Federal Security Service or FSB, the main successor of the notorious KGB. The mission of Alpha Group was counter-terrorism. Justin realized Romanov must have greased some serious government wheels to secure such topnotch people. It was an indication of this mission’s importance to Romanov, as well as the level of hostilities he was expecting on the ground. Or perhaps he just wanted to teach a good lesson to the crew who had betrayed him, as well as to anyone else stupid enough to get in the way.

Interesting enough, Romanov had not provided any briefings, pictures, or anything at all about the people who has stolen his cargo. It was not an oversight. Romanov would have had access to information about the people working for him. Justin frowned.
Why is this page blank? Who are these people? What is Romanov not telling me?

The Russian government’s implicit seal of approval for this black operation meant certain advantages, at least when the team entered Yemen and in case of any contacts with local police. But when the time came to deal with the cargo thieves and Houthis insurgents, the battlefield was leveled. Everyone would have to prove themselves.

Justin took a few sips of his coffee, then placed his cup back on the table, next to the woman’s picture. Her name was Yuliya Markov. She had short light brown hair that reached her slender neck and hazel eyes that showed a barely noticeable hint of sadness. Her long narrow nose and thick luscious lips would have guaranteed her a career in skin care products modeling, if she had chosen that path. She was dressed in desert camouflage fatigues, but Justin could still tell she had a trimmed body, in perfect shape.

“More coffee?” asked one of the flight attendants.

Justin looked up at the smiling face, then down at Yuliya’s stoic position, her hands gripping an AK.
Two beautiful women with two lives that couldn’t be any more different from each other.

“Sure, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He closed the file and enjoyed the hot drink, while lying back in his oversized seat.
Who knows if I’ll get the chance to sit back and relax in Yemen?