Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (21 page)

A moment later, she shouted, “Clear.”

Justin hurried to her position, while Yuliya covered his advancement.

“The safe house has been breached.” She pointed at the two-story house to the left of the Mercedes-Benz.

The blue gate of the house and one of the front windows were open.

“Maybe someone left it—”

“No. Mikhail’s strict orders.”

There were no more gunshots. Car tires squealed, followed by car engines noises fading away. An angry dog howled and barked a few times and people began to pop on the street. First men, then children and women.

“I’ll check on the second Rover,” Yuliya said, but her voice betrayed her feelings. She was not expecting any survivors.

“I’ll get to the safe house. Meet me there.”

Yuliya nodded.

Justin kept his eyes open, his gun following the movements of the people. Small crowds were forming at each house’s doorsteps. There were plenty of guns still on the road next to the dead men, not counting the ones there could be inside these houses. The dead may have relatives in this neighborhood, and their shed blood was calling for revenge. Other shooters could be hiding behind the curious, innocent onlookers, waiting for the right moment to strike when he turned his back.

Some of the men began to yell at him. A few of the elderly women joined them. He understood most of their curses and their hand gestures, but ignored them all. One or two of the children picked up rocks, ready to cast them without a warning.

A small boy—perhaps seven or eight—pointed his toy pistol at Justin. “Pow. Pow, pow.”

Justin shook his head. A few more years and the boy would probably hold a real pistol, aim it at a foreigner, who knows, maybe him if he came back to Sana’a, and pull the real trigger. It could happen even earlier than that, especially if one of the dead men was his father or an older brother.

Justin gestured for the crowds to stay back. He swung his gun left and right, double-checking the windows and the doors, and crossed the hundred yards separating him from the safe house. Even before stepping inside, he knew Yuliya was right.

The gate showed no signs of forced entry.
Somebody let them in.
A short, heavy-set man was lying face down two steps away from the entrance. A large bullet wound in his back and the pool of blood around his body told Justin he could do nothing for this man. He was already dead. But the dead man could tell him the story of what had happened at the safe house.
He was someone known to the team. One they trusted. They opened the door when they saw him and others forced their way in.

The sight inside the house testified to a fierce battle. The intruders may have taken the team by surprise, at least at first. Two men of light skin color were sprawled at the entrance to the kitchen, bullet wounds all over their bodies.
Not a clean kill. A long, indiscriminate, hateful barrage.

They were obvious signs the team had recovered fast. A dark-skinned man dressed in local clothes had a bullet hole where his mouth used to be. The exit wound at the back of his head had blown out a part of his brain and his skull. Another two men had a deadly wound each in the left side of their chests. An expert hand had planted singles bullet to their hearts, stopping them as they had barged into the kitchen.
It was probably that expert hand,
Justin thought, looking at a blonde man who resembled Anton so much he could have easily been his brother. The blonde man was at the doorway to the hall, in a sitting position. Four or five bullets had brought him down.

Justin followed a pair of bloodied footprints to the next room, finding another dead man, which he assumed was a member of Romanov’s team judging by his camouflage uniform now soaked in blood. Another intruder was dead at the entrance to the second room. His chest and legs were bullet-ridden, blood still trickling out of the wounds. Panic had set in, Justin realized. As Spetsnaz members were being decimated, they understood they could not stop the flow of militants rushing through their safe house.

He stepped inside the last room and immediately regretted it. Someone had thrown in a grenade, which had exploded, shredding everything and everyone inside. Two unrecognizable bodies were on the floor amidst the debris.

Justin heard footsteps behind him, then Yuliya’s voice. “It’s me. Justin, you’re there?”

“Yeah, back room.”

He met her in the hall. “Anyone alive?”

“Yeah, Daniel. He’s got a leg wound, but not life threatening. He’s watching the street. I brought your briefcase.” She sat in on the ground, against the wall.

“Thanks. Everyone’s dead here.”

Yuliya’s eyes almost doubled in size. “No, no, Mikhail,” she shouted, rushing toward the last room.

“No, don’t go in there.” Justin stopped her with his body. She tried to push him away, so he wrapped his arms around her. “Listen, they . . . he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”

Yuliya wrestled one more time to break free of his grip. A moment later, she relented and held Justin tight. He felt a single tear stroll down her cheek.

She sniffled, coughed, then said, “There
is
something I can do. I’m going to get those sons of bitches who did this to my partners and to my Mikhail.”

Yuliya took a step back. Justin did not try to stop her. She turned around and headed to the kitchen.

Justin followed her. “How did this happen?”

She picked up a chair that had been flipped over and sat on it. “The fat one at the entrance is Romanov’s contact. I’m not sure if he was forced into this raid or did it for the money, and then the people he trusted shot him in the back.”

“Romanov’s money?”

“Yes. For the missiles. Ten million dollars. We kept it here in the kitchen, in two duffle bags. Someone was always guarding it. Now it’s gone.”

She pointed to the empty table.

“How did you get the money?”

“Romanov had it transferred to a local bank. We picked it up this morning.”

“This safe house. Who found it?”

“Romanov’s contact. We got here last night, well, early this morning. The contact was supposed to bring us new information about the missiles and insurgents’ moves. Perhaps Hamidi’s men got to him.”

“Hamidi?”

Yuliya frowned. “Rashed bin Hussein Hamidi. The Qatari arms dealer who diverted Romanov’s plane.”

Justin’s face must have clearly shown his lack ignorance because Yuliya asked, “You really don’t know about Hamidi?”

“It’s new to me.”

“He’s the one who has the weapons now, the missiles, and who’s striking the deal with Houthis insurgents and Al-Khaiwani. Romanov wants Hamidi’s head.”

“Because he stole his plane?”

“And it damaged Romanov’s relationship with the Saudis.”

“I need to talk to Romanov. But we have to get out of this place. The police will get here sooner or later, or the friends of those dead men may decide to come back.”

Yuliya stood up. “Our plane’s waiting for us at an airfield an hour drive north.”

“You’re sure it hasn’t been compromised?”

“Romanov’s contact didn’t know about the plane. And none of my team members would say a word.”

She pulled out her cellphone and began taking pictures of the dead intruders. “The FSB will find out what terrorist group they belong to, but I’m sure they’re Houthis.”

A tall, thin man in a camouflage uniform knocked on the door. “Yuliya, the police are closing in,” he said in Russian.

“That’s Daniel,” Yuliya said.

“I’ll check their pockets for IDs or anything useful, so we’ll know who they worked for,” Justin said.

He found two cellphones, some money, and a few scraps of paper. Some had notes scribbled in bad handwriting.

“We’ve got to go,” Yuliya said.

“This way.” Daniel led them to the first room. He was limping, and his left pant leg was tattered and blood spattered. Daniel used his AK’s butt stock to clear the broken glass fragments from one of the windows, then stumbled outside into the narrow alley.

They marched in a single file for the next couple of blocks, avoiding the main road. They came to large cinder block structure that looked like a warehouse. A crane, a cement truck, and other heavy machineries were parked to the side, along with an old silver Mercedes-Benz and two worn-out Toyotas.

“Our ride.” Justin pointed at the Mercedes-Benz.

“I’ll cover the back entrance,” Daniel said. “You take the front.”

Justin shook his head. “No need for another gunfight and have the police on our back. We’ll buy it.”

He took a bundle of dollar bills from an envelope in his briefcase. “Ten grand. He won’t say no. The Merc’s not worth half of it.”

“I take it you speak Arabic besides Russian,” Yuliya said. She blinked in surprise, her head tilted to the side.

Justin grinned. “I do.”

He gave Yuliya his submachine gun.

“We’re ready to jump in if things don’t go well,” she said.

“Great. I’ll meet you at the back, a block away. North,” Justin said.

He walked toward the warehouse, shouting in a loud voice. Two people came out. One was the owner of the Mercedes-Benz. Justin offered him five thousand dollars to buy the car on the spot, no inspection required, no questions asked. The owner had a sharp eye for a good deal, realizing Justin’s urgency in buying his car. So he upped the price, asking for double the amount. With no time to waste and police sirens echoing in his ears, Justin accepted the offer. Money and keys changed hands, and Justin drove to the back of the warehouse and to the meeting point.

Yuliya and Daniel were there in two minutes.

“Where’s the airstrip?” Justin asked.

“Hidden in the hills north of Amran,” replied Yuliya. “About forty miles north.”

“We’ll take back roads wherever we can. Yuliya, why don’t you drive?” Justin asked in Russian. “I need to think and clear my head.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sana’a, Yemen

September 27, 10:30 a.m. local time

The C5 Galaxy military cargo plane of Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa landed at Sana’a International Airport a few minutes past ten. Aboard the mammoth airplane transporting a Sikorsky HH60 Pave Hawk helicopter, weapons, and other military supplies for the Yemeni Air Force—a small part of US assistance in to bolster the country’s fight against terrorists on all fronts—there was a squad of US Marines and Carrie O’Connor.

McClain had convinced senior US military officials in Nairobi to fly Carrie to Sana’a, citing unspecified international security concerns. It took some arm twisting and the threat of potential grave consequences, but finally Carrie joined the Marines.

As she climbed into one of the SUVs waiting to take them to the terminal, Carrie glanced in surprise at a Gulfstream G650 parked near the end of the airfield.
Some powerful oil tycoon is in town,
she thought.

The customs paperwork went smooth, and Carrie met up with Nathan outside the terminal. Nathan had arrived about an hour earlier on a commercial flight from Dubai and was waiting in a rented jeep. Nathan offered to let her drive, but Carrie declined, sitting instead in the front passenger’s seat. They talked about their flights, then focused on the task at hand. They were going to Hajjah, about eighty miles northwest of Sana’a. A small Cessna would then fly them to the outskirts of Sa’dah, from where they would advance toward Justin’s and Al-Khaiwani’s location.

Fifteen minutes later, Carrie’s satellite phone rang. “It’s McClain. I’ll put him on speakerphone.”

“Good,” said Nathan.

“This is Carrie, sir. Nathan’s here as well.”

“Hi, Carrie. Nathan. How was the flight, Carrie?”

“Excellent, sir.”

“Marines gave you any trouble?”

“Negative. A few complimented me, and a couple tried to make a move. I sent them both to hell.”

McClain chuckled. “Good one. Talking about hell, things are going to get pretty hot in Sa’dah. There have been some negative developments.”

Carrie’s face remained calm. She was used to getting bad news. It would surprise her at this point if McClain gave her any good news. “We’re listening.”

“It seems Romanov hasn’t been quite straightforward with Hall and with us.”

“That slimy weasel never is. So there are no missiles and no Al-Khaiwani?”

“No, the missiles and the terrorists are there. But Romanov left out something crucial. Following the trail of those weapons, the M16s discovered in Somalia, I was looking into other arms deals involving American weapons and contacting other intelligence agencies. It’s still unclear where exactly these weapons came from, and CIA is not being very helpful. I just finished talking to Mossad. Their intel shows that Rashed bin Hussein Hamidi is the man Romanov wants. And he’s also hiding in Sa’dah.”

“Hamidi? Who is he?”

“I’m having some people dig out the facts, but according to Mossad’s sources, Hamidi’s a big weapons businessman. He has sold weapons to Libya’s and Syria’s rebels and elsewhere in Africa and South America. He partnered with Romanov as they tried to break into the Saudi’s weapons market.”

“So, Hamidi took Romanov’s shipment?”

“Mossad wasn’t clear about that. Hamidi was aboard the cargo plane, which initially was headed to Saudi Arabia. He was in charge of completing the delivery.”

Carrie glanced at Nathan. His eyes were glued to the road, but his head was slightly tilted toward the satellite phone Carrie was holding in her hand.

“OK, so Romanov has been duped by Hamidi. Why is Mossad interested in this war of elephants?”

McClain laughed. “You beat me to it. Mossad claims Hamidi has been brokering deals to deliver weapons to Yemeni insurgents. That’s why this cargo is in there instead of Saudi Arabia. And Mossad has evidence Hamidi sold similar missiles to Hamas and Hezbollah.”

Carrie’s face sank. This was not bad news. This was worse news. “He armed Israel’s sworn enemies. Hamidi’s a dead man,” she said in a low voice.

Nathan’s eyes caught hers. She tried to smile, but her lips just formed a small grin.