Gravedigger (3 page)

The next morning found the
three of them driving cautiously along rutted mountain roads in the driving rain. Noa had insisted on driving, but it wasn’t long before both Derek and Johnston demanded one of them take the wheel. She said they were being sexist.

“No,” Derek said. “It’s because you’re insane. You’re going to get us all killed. Slow down.”

“Let me put it even more succinctly,” Johnston growled. “Slow down or I will shoot you.”

Now, with Johnston at the wheel, they were headed to a remote village called Marif. It had been lower on their list, well into Afghanistan, but Noa had spent the evening talking with Abison’s wife, Ghila. The woman had told a story of strange deaths, many of them, caused by evil spirits. And she talked about how the bodies had been thrown into a mass grave and most of the remaining people had left.

They had hoped to get there before noon, but with the weather and the roads, it was taking almost three times as long. They would be lucky to get there before night fell. As the truck skidded in the mud, sliding toward a nearly vertical drop, Derek closed his eyes and wondered if they would get there at all.

Noa, currently in the back seat, said, “You have no faith in the general’s driving either?”

“A little more than in yours. I would prefer to be driving.”

“Not any time soon,” Johnston snapped.

“The general,” Derek said, “has control issues.”

“You should talk.”

Noa seemed to perk up. “Oh, please, tell me more about Derek Stillwater’s control issues. Entertain me. A CIA agent with psychological problems. What a surprise.”

Derek grinned. “Hard to argue, actually. But then again, a Mossad agent that would prefer to shoot first and ask questions later. What a surprise.”

Her eyes sparked. “I am probably the first Mossad agent you ever met.”

“Before the CIA I was Army Special Forces,” Derek said. “I served in Iraq. I actually spent some time in Israel working with your military a few years back.”

“Yes. That’s in your file. And you spent time recently in Cuba.”

General Johnston cocked his head at Derek. “She knows things she shouldn’t.”

“It’s not general knowledge. You get that from the Home Office, Noa?”

“We like to know who we’re working with. Your psychological profile is … complex.”

Johnston snorted.

“And yours?” Derek asked.

“Mine is none of your business.”

Derek turned back to face out the front. It had been like that with Noa the entire mission. Veiled criticisms and whenever you tried to find out something about her, the steel wall came down with a crash.

“But,” Noa said. “Eli Rosen remembers you fondly.”

Now he turned back to look at her. A smile did not cross her face, but she did look amused. “How is Eli?”

“Fine. Has a baby son.”

“Good for him.” To General Johnston, Derek said, “Eli is a Captain in the Israeli Defense Forces.”

“A Major now.”

“Good for him. We spent some time together when I was doing some counterterrorism training in Tel Aviv. Eli is also a specialist in chemical and biological weapons.”

“He said you are very good at what you do.”

“I’ll have to thank him. Are you friends?”

“Israel is a small country.”

That was a fairly oblique way to answer a question. But since she seemed to be talking, he said, “Did you grow up in Israel?”

“Yes. My parents were born there. My grandparents came from Germany. And yes, Holocaust survivors.”

Derek nodded. “You grew up in Tel Aviv?”

She made a face. “Jerusalem.”

“Beautiful city,” Derek said. “Brothers and sisters?”

She stared hard at him for a moment. Then, “One brother, one sister. Both dead. Ari in Lebanon in ’88. Ziva two years ago in the Intifada. They were both in IDF.”

Derek thought about that. Two siblings dying two years apart, both in the military. Voice level, he said, “You served in the IDF?”

“Everyone does,” she said. “But I went into Military Intelligence, then transferred to the Home Office.” Her voice was short. Apparently deciding she’d had enough of this conversation, she turned her face away to look out the window. Derek and General Johnston shared a meaningful look, then switched to discussing this year’s baseball season. Both marveled at how well the Atlanta Braves were doing.

Finally, just as the sun was setting behind the peaks, they pulled into what had once been a small village, but was now more of a ghost town. No one approached them as they clambered out of the truck to look around. It was still raining, although the rain was mixed with snow. It was windy and bitterly cold.

“‘
See the world
,’ they said,” said Derek. “‘
Be all you can be
.’”

“‘
Find the future
,’” intoned General Johnston.

“What are you two babbling about?” Noa asked from beneath a poncho.

“We’re just not seeing the glamour in our current career choices,” Derek said.

Her dark eyes glared at him. “Can we get to work?”

“Well,” Derek said. “Let’s see if we can find someone. And if we can’t find someone, maybe we can find evidence of a mass grave. Or weapons. Or, you know, signs of life.”

They split up. Derek, figuring a mass grave probably would not be in the middle of the village, opted for hiking around the outer rim of the settlement. Noa and Johnston headed into the town, through the gate of the mud-brick surrounding wall, disappearing into the gathering gloom.

Derek began a counter-clockwise circuit. Marif was built into the side of a mountain. Terraces had been dug into it, undoubtedly for some crops. Now they acted almost like tiers of waterfalls. The route above the village was rough – scraggly shrubs that bore inch-long thorns that grabbed at his legs. The rutted path was a bog of mud and unstable rocks and gravel. Rain pounded on his poncho. Slipping to his knees, Derek cursed and staggered to his feet. Disgusted, he pulled off the poncho, folded it and stuck it in his ruck. It wasn’t doing him any good. He was already soaked to the skin.

Stopping to peer around, he realized he was now fifty yards or so above the village. He could see the lights bobbing on opposite sides of Marif—Noa and Johnston. He flicked off his light to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He sniffed the air. Ozone and mud. Something else. Smoke. Squinting through the rain, he studied Marif. A few dozen houses with mud-brick and stone walls. Roofs made of tin or timbers or more mud and wood.

The wind whipped from behind him, further up in the mountains. Something was burning above him.

Before investigating further, he donned a pair of night vision goggles. The village below him appeared ghostly and green, the two flashlights causing distortion and flare. He adjusted the NVGs and scanned the area. Further below him, on the opposite end of the village, spread what had probably once been crops. Although the NVGs didn’t allow for great depth perception, the earth where there had once been crops appeared uneven and mounded. It would be his first test site for a mass grave.

Further along, to the west, looked like a pile of trash. A huge pile. Almost like a dump site. Another plate to investigate.

Turning his back on the village, he studied the ridges and terraces above him. No light appeared, but the smell of smoke was unmistakable.

Time to find out who was home.

It was slow and treacherous. He picked his way in the dark along a narrow, muddy trail that wound its way up the mountainside. At times it disappeared in a cascade of rocks and erosion, forcing Derek to carefully climb around ledges that crumbled under his fingers and offered twenty-foot drops if he screwed up.

Finally Derek rolled over the lip of a rocky ledge. He crouched on the hard ground, breathing in the cold, wet, thin air. Below him the village seemed small, easily two hundred meters below. Turning, he scanned the terrace. Wind whipped the rain against his goggles, obscuring his vision. But he had seen shapes forty or fifty yards away against the cliff wall.

The terrace was dotted with wind-stripped trees, boulders, and what looked like corn and possibly wheat.

Because the people here had gone to such trouble to stay hidden, his instincts told him not to stroll unannounced into the camp. Certainly they would have noticed their truck coming into the village, heard the sounds of their doors slamming shut.

Derek calmed his heart and breathing, staying still, extending his senses. He smelled smoke. The only sounds he could hear were the rain and the wind bending the corn and wheat.

Dropping into the mud, he crawled from his location to a nearby tree. Taking his time, he slithered into the wheat and corn, moving until he was still hidden but could see the camp.

There were tents and lean-to’s and a cave. A dozen men sat around a fire that was roasting something – he could smell the meat, but couldn’t identify it. They all looked Afghani or Pakistani, wearing traditional clothes –
salwar kameez
, turbans, coats. They all had long, thick beards. They all had AK47s nearby.

Continuing to study them, he patiently waited to sort out everything he was seeing. Off to his right was a rough corral with a dozen horses or mules huddling together in the rain. He assumed there must be an easier way off this terrace than the route he’d taken. Horses would never have made it up that trail.

Further back, behind the men, he saw several crates. He adjusted the binoculars on the NVGs. The writing on the sides appeared to be Cyrillic.

The sound of gunfire broke the silence. Gunfire from down below. In the village.

Tensing, heart pounding, Derek watched the men jump to their feet. One of the men shouted at several of the others. They grabbed weapons and sprinted into the darkness. Everyone picked up their AK47s. Two disappeared into the cave. Three took up posts at strategic locations around the camp. Three moved toward the edge of the terrace, toward the route Derek had come.

He stayed as still as possible. They walked around the cornfield, only a dozen feet from where he lay hidden.

The person who appeared to be the leader of this group paced inside the mouth of the cave, AK47 clenched in one fist, smoking a cigarette. Minutes crept by. Several of the men reappeared, reporting in. It continued to rain. Derek, chilled to the marrow, was lying in six inches of mud.

Almost forty minutes later, Derek heard the sound of a truck engine. To his surprise, their Land Rover appeared from between a cut in the terrace and pulled up alongside the makeshift corral. One of the Afghans was driving. The doors opened and General Johnston and Noa Shoshan climbed awkwardly from the rear doors, their hands tied behind their backs. One of the men prodded Johnston in the back with his assault rifle. Johnston and Noa walked toward the encampment.

The man Derek had pegged
as the leader of the group stalked toward Johnston and Noa. He studied them a moment without saying anything, smoking his cigarette. Finally he said something. Johnston shrugged. Suddenly the leader struck Noa with his fist. With her hands tied behind her back, she went down hard and awkward. Derek thought maybe she’d said something the leader didn’t like, or perhaps he was the type of conservative Muslim who didn’t want women speaking out of order at all.

Johnston stepped between the man and Noa. Derek couldn’t hear a word. His rifle was back in the truck. He carried a .45 Beretta in a holster on his belt. Taking it out now, he braced it in front of him, aimed at the leader. It was a shot he could make. Maybe.

Derek was one of that strange breed of shooters. Put him in range with stationary targets and he was a fair shooter, maybe a little above average. Stick him in a tactical shooting range like the FBI’s Hogan’s Alley and he was one of the best around. He performed best under pressure.

Still, it would be a hell of a shot in shitty conditions.

He waited. As he did, the rain became more mixed with snow.

I lead a charmed life,
he thought.

The leader spoke to one of his men, who roughly hauled Noa to her feet. Johnston spoke to her. She said something to the leader. The leader seemed to be listening. A three-way conversation ensued.

Two more men appeared. A more spirited conversation took place. Lots of gesticulating. Then the leader pointed at Johnston and Noa. Two of his men pushed them across the compound and knocked them to the ground by the fire.

The leader talked with several of his men, gesturing to the truck. Several of the Afghans started sorting through the gear. They liked the guns. They liked the pots and pans and cooking gear and food. Derek, shivering, hoped they didn’t associate the five or six duffels with three people and start looking for him.

Once their gear was out, the men started loading crates on top of the truck and securing it with rope. They shoved as much as they could into the back. The leader walked over, a bag on his shoulder. He spoke to several of the men, gesturing at Johnston and Noa, then he and another man climbed into the truck. They drove away.

Patiently, Derek waited. He counted the men. Eleven left. Two had gone. He hoped they were gone for a long time. The men in the camp came and went. A couple remained, guarding Johnston and Noa. Derek didn’t like the way they eyed Noa. Only bad things were going to come of this if he didn’t act soon.

As he watched, one of the men crouched down by Noa. He reached out and pulled her scarf away. She said something, jerking away. He touched her face. Johnston said something. The other man stepped over and punched the general in the head. Johnston went down hard. Blood flowed from his nose.

Derek coiled, ready to act if he had to.

Johnston rolled to a sitting position, talking. Noa nodded, speaking to the men. The two men looked at each other. They talked to each other, furtively looking at Noa.

Now was the time. Confident in the number of men and their various locations, he began a slow backward slither. He was silent and the wind blew the corn and wheat, so his movements wouldn’t be obvious. When he was deep in the corn, he slipped off his rucksack. It contained the chemical test kit, a bottle of water, two full clips for the Beretta, a basic first aid kit – his more extensive one had been in the truck – a couple energy bars, a cigarette lighter, a steel match, and water filter. In other words, basic survival gear plus high-tech equipment to test for chemical weapons.

He pocketed the clips for the Beretta, the energy bars, and cigarette lighter. He drank from the water bottle and shivered. Whatever he intended to do, he’d better do it in a hurry before hypothermia set in.

With the night vision goggles, the gun, and the seven-inch Yarborough knife he received when he graduated from the Special Forces Qualification Course, he was ready. Keeping the gun in the holster, he gripped the knife and began to crawl back toward the precipice that overlooked the village below.

Within a dozen feet of his destination, he smelled cigarette smoke. Whatever else these guys might be, they weren’t pros.

The wind blew harder, dissipating the smell and drowning out any sounds. Edging closer, he finally saw two men. Derek hid about a dozen feet away. They smoked cigarettes and murmured to each other. Their AK47s were slung over their shoulders. They stood on the edge of a terrace. If Derek remembered correctly, it was about twenty-feet high. He had climbed up it along a steep, winding trail.

Slowly, he drew himself up into a coiled crouch.

He exploded out of the corn. One of the men heard him and turned, struggling with his assault rifle. Derek slammed into him with his shoulder. With a cry the man flew off the terrace.

Spinning, Derek slashed out with his knife at the other man. He instinctively raised his hands in defense. The razor-sharp blade tore through an upraised hand. Stumbling backward, the man balanced on the edge of the cliff, then caught himself and turned to run.

Derek was on him in a flash, yanking the man’s chin back hard and slicing his throat. Hot blood gushed over his hand. The man sagged. Derek let him tumble off the edge of the cliff.

He crouched, listening if anyone had heard their shouts.

Confident in his continued anonymity, he disappeared back into the corn. There was another set of guards off to his right.

Using the cover of the corn, he moved quickly. When the crops ended, he laid in the mud, NVGs scanning the area. Easily forty yards away he saw two more men. They paced, guns in their arms, not over their shoulders. They walked along the ridge the truck had disappeared through, some sort of road or path that eventually led down to the main road.

Derek spent another ten minutes watching their movements and scanning the terrain.

Moving again into a crouch, he felt stiffer and slower. The cold was taking its toll. The rain had mostly turned to snow and the wind bit through his clothes.

Watching the two men, he waited until they both faced away from him. He sprinted from the cover of the corn, ten yards to a wind-twisted tree. It didn’t provide much cover.

The men didn’t act as if they had seen him. In a crouch, he waited.

They walked along the ridge for a while before turning back.

He sprinted another dozen yards to a tumble of boulders.

Now he was a dozen yards from the men. They had the high ground. There was no cover from where he hid.

They separated, which was not what he was hoping for.

Derek continued to wait. One of the men walked toward where he was hiding. Heart hammering in his chest, he couldn’t believe his luck.

The man walked right past where Derek hid. Derek leapt out and took him out, cutting his throat. The man struggled in his hands for a moment before going limp.

Derek dragged him behind the rocks and took the AK47. Checking the magazine, he found it half-full.

Turning back, he realized he had lost track of the other man. He quickly scanned the ridge, but he was nowhere to be seen. Shit. Where was he?

Derek crept around the boulders. Suddenly behind him came a shout. Spinning, he saw the man, now only a dozen feet away, AK47 aimed at Derek. He gestured for Derek to put down the rifle.

The man was close enough and his AK47 aimed at him, that Derek didn’t think he had much choice. He hoped the guy didn’t see his dead partner’s body behind the boulders. That would make for a very short conversation.

Derek slowly dropped the rifle. It was dark and Derek definitely had the advantage with the NVGs. As he dropped the rifle, he tucked the knife into his sleeve, the handle in his hand. He slowly walked toward the man. The
muj
jerked the AK47 at him and shouted something in what Derek thought was Pashto. Derek’s Pashto was severely limited. He could say “One more beer, please” in about twenty languages, and Pashto wasn’t one of them.

He said, “
As-salaamu’ alaykum,
” a basic greeting. The man responded, but Derek had no idea what he said. He took two steps closer. The man indicated with his gun for him to stand still.

Having used most of his Pashto on the first attempt, he went with his second phrase. “
Za na poheegum
.”
I don’t understand
. True enough.

This seemed to anger the man, whose tone grew harsher. The gun bobbed more violently. Derek was now within three or four feet.

Despite the man’s thick beard, Derek got a sense of youth. Late teens, early twenties. Even in the rain and snow and wind he smelled of curry and tobacco, body odor and fear.

Derek was down to one more phrase. “
Tashnab cherta di?
”

The man cocked his head, puzzled. As well he should have been, since Derek had just asked where the toilet was. But the puzzlement didn’t last long. Derek leapt toward the man, one hand catching the barrel of the AK47 and pushing it aside, the other bringing the knife down in a deadly arc. The blade caught the man between his neck and the collarbone. He screamed and squeezed the trigger. A chatter of gunfire split the night air. The
muj
jerked away from Derek, trying to bring the gun around.

Derek hung onto the blade, pulling the man to him so he couldn’t use the gun on him. With his free hand the man pounded at Derek’s head. More gunfire spasmed out as Derek drove the knife further into the shoulder. With a final twist, Derek tore the blade upward, across the neck into the left common carotid artery.

Blood spurted over his hand and spattered across Derek’s face. The man howled and collapsed, taking Derek with him.

Picking up the AK47 and snagging the other dead man’s weapon, Derek threw himself to the ground, rolling to a stop next to the boulders.

He had just long enough to catch his breath. Through the NVGs three men raced toward him. Derek set his sites on the man in the front. And fired twice.

As that man went down, he aimed for the second. Fired twice. The third man threw himself to the ground. Derek had been prepared for that. His next two bullets took off the top of his head.

Rolling, Derek jumped to his feet and raced for the ridge.