Night Hush (9 page)

 

Chapter Fourteen

August 26. 1:00
P.M.

US Embassy, Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

J
ACE FOLLOWED
HIS
boss and Ken Acolatse, the Troop Command Sergeant Major, into an opulent conference room with sophisticated everything. An array of sandwiches and fresh fruit, drinks, and even alcohol filled the sideboard. A dozen ­people milled about, filling plates or nabbing bottles of expensive artesian water.

A slender woman with high cheekbones and dark hair curling over her ears and forehead set up at the front podium. A Poindexter type near her messing with cords and a projector sent her a worshipful look, which she either didn't see or ignored. Her large brown eyes snapped with intelligence. She hooked up her laptop and flashed a slide announcing a political threat briefing. Poindexter disappeared.

Lieutenant Colonel Louis Jowat, commander of the 214th Security Forces Squadron, lounged against the podium. Several times, he leaned forward into the woman's personal space, a smirk in place and nothing good on his mind. The oily colonel had a reputation that included sexual harassment, intimidation, and coercion. As he was the senior cop on the Air Force Base, grievances mysteriously vanished and complainants found themselves on the receiving end of traffic tickets and other blowback. The woman shifted away from him and even turned her back, irritation showing in the set of her shoulders. She finally whispered something to him sharply enough that he scowled and straightened.

Gradually, the men and women settled into the thick, padded-­leather executive chairs. Jace found his name at the table and planted himself. Jowat sat opposite him, arms crossed and face sullen. Jace doubted he'd be much use during the meeting.

The unpleasant colonel would provide the initial perimeter security to the parade grounds where the president would address the troops. Jace was here because the Secret Ser­vice wanted to use one or more of Colonel Granville's teams as support and extra eyes, a second perimeter around the president's podium. The president's protection detail would surround the president himself.

Because Delta Force operated outside of the conventional military hierarchy, they often supported other branches of ser­vice and alphabet agencies like the CIA or FBI. Every day something new and different, just the way Jace liked it. Bo Granville plunked himself down beside Jace, juggling a plate and three cups of coffee. He shoved one of the cups in front of Jace, flicking away the hot liquid that splashed onto his fingers, and gave the other to Ken. He waved his hand over the food, tacitly telling his men to share in the bounty. Jace grabbed a turkey club, setting it on a napkin near the folder at his elbow.

Across from Jace and two chairs down, a British Army officer scrutinized the woman with laserlike intensity. Jace assessed him automatically. He could tell just from watching that he was a special operator. The way he sat; slouched, but prepared to launch full tilt in a nanosecond. The way he held his hands open and ready. His eyes. It always showed in the eyes. A nonoperator wouldn't see it. Maybe an intensity, maybe deep pools of experience. But to Jace, it was as obvious as if the man had waved a semaphore.

Jace glanced at the beige beret thrown carelessly onto the table. The insignia showed the flaming Sword of Damocles, which made him Special Air Ser­vice. The SAS was almost as elite, and almost as secretive, as Delta Force, and the two organizations worked together regularly. The officer turned that laser focus to the three Delta Force operators and inclined his head solemnly. Despite their civilian clothes, he had summed up the three just as easily as they had him.

Delta operators rarely wore uniforms or adhered to required protocols or military grooming standards. As often as not, they ignored rank entirely and addressed one another by first name. They enjoyed a level of autonomy found nowhere else in the Armed Ser­vices. It helped keep their identities secret. But operators recognized other operators. He raised a single finger in greeting.

Ready, the attractive woman up front cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen. If we could begin.”

They immediately quieted and turned their attention to her. The Brit cocked his head, glancing around the table at the clear respect offered to her, then studied the woman even more closely. Evidently, she was more senior than her age would suggest.

She clicked the device in her hand, and “Upcoming Presidential Visit” flashed onto the screen. Below it, September 11.

“Good morning. For those of you who don't know me, I am Deputy Political Counselor Shelby Gibson. I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome Mike Boston and Brian Seifert of the US Secret Ser­vice. They'll be coordinating all aspects of President Cooper's visit and will be joined by more agents shortly. Obviously, we will give you any assistance you need.” She smiled warmly at them, then cleared her throat as she turned to the Brit. “Also, may I introduce Major Trevor Carswell, of the 22
nd
British SAS, Counter-­Terrorism, here in Azakistan on temporary duty.”

There was a murmur from around the table. Shelby Gibson's gaze sharpened, landing on Trevor with curiosity. The Brit's lips twitched. Jace watched the exchange, amused. Did they realize how transparent their mutual interest was?

“Glad to have you, Major Carswell,” said a tall, thin man. He adjusted his glasses so he could peer along the table. “Nice job in Iraq.” He got up and came around the table, putting out a hand. “You saved my agent's ass. I'm Jay Spicer. I'm the CIA station chief here.”

Trevor rose to shake the man's hand. Colonel Jowat glowered and remained seated. The thin, severe-­looking woman across from Trevor asked, “Were you part of the SAS team that pulled those two pilots out of Afghanistan a few months ago?”

Trevor gave the woman a blank look. “I'm sorry. I don't know wh . . .”

Shelby interrupted. “Major Carswell, everyone here is read in at the Top Secret level, and then some. You may speak freely. May I introduce everyone?”

She went around the room. The three Delta Force operators were introduced by name, with no military designation. The Secret Ser­vice agents understood; it glimmered in their eyes. The buttoned-­down woman across from Trevor turned out to be Dr. Harriet Pangbourn, Director of Cultural Relations (Middle East) at the Institute for International Progress. Jace had never heard of it.

Shelby directed their attention back to the projection screen. “This morning, I'm going to give a general overview of the current political climate here in Azakistan. I know you're getting separate economic and intelligence briefings, so I'm going to cover high-­end trends within the government, all right?”

Brian Seifert nodded. “We're only trying to get a sense of where things stand. Right now, we're just gathering information.”

Shelby gestured around the table. “We're all here to answer any questions you might have. I'll assume for the moment you don't know much about Azakistan. Most ­people don't. We're smaller than both Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. The Islamic Republic of Azakistan has had democratic elections since 1998. The prime minister draws his legitimacy from Parliament, and is subject to their confidence. His term is for five years.”

She clicked to the next slide, a map of Azakistan. “We're located east of Iran and south of Turkmenistan. There are marshes and lakes in the northeastern regions, including here in the capital city and around al-­Zadr Air Force Base, which is about twenty miles from Ma'ar ye zhad. The central corridor is primarily long, low stretches of emptiness and scrub brush, ending in the high mountainous regions of the Afghan border to the south. That's just to orient you. Now let's get to the heart of Azakistani politics.”

Jace found himself listening as attentively as the rest of the room as she outlined the shift away from a pro-­democratic stance toward a fundamentally traditionalist view. The dynamism in her presentation, her voice, her body language, all spoke of a woman passionate about her work. As she outlined the political aspirations of various members of Parliament, he scanned the brief in front of him. It included a section on politicians deemed friendly to the West and those who opposed Western influence. It was thorough and well written, and she'd grasped nuances of the conflict that had taken him years in the field to understand fully.

“Obviously, the shift toward conformism concerns us. Pashtuns abhor every Western influence as evil. We're starting to see Pashtun imams in outlying cities, and some within certain sections of Momardhi and Tiqt, enforcing some of the, shall we say, less appealing aspects of an otherwise peaceful religion. The Pashtun Nationalist Party could very well gain a majority in Parliament during the next election.”

Jowat leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Doubtful. All the political analysts agree the Reformists will win reelection. Don't stir up trouble. Keep your pretty little head on the slides you're supposed to read, sweetheart.”

Shelby's face reddened and she glanced down at the podium before meeting Jowat's condescension head-­on. The SAS major shot Jowat a dirty look and opened his mouth.

“Yes, but if it does happen,” Shelby said, narrowing her eyes at Trevor. Her message couldn't have been more clear—­
shut up and let me handle this
. Jace watched her, curious. What would she do? “We need to consider the ramifications.
I
wrote
my
briefing after consulting numerous sources.” She sent Jowat a bland smile. “As I was saying, if the Pashtuns control the government, there could be an increase in ethnic and racial discrimination. Diminished rights for non-­Pashtus and women. Pressure to reduce or eliminate Western influence. American businesses could be boycotted. There will probably be bans on imports. It just gets worse from there.”

Shelby clicked to another slide. “There are two main concerns as far as the president's visit. One is the ­people with whom he'll come into contact.”

Mike Boston held up a hand. “All attendees will be thoroughly vetted. You don't have to worry about that part.”

“Yes, of course,” Shelby said. “I just meant that I know that some former warlords, in particular, are virtually flocking to the opposition party's side. I've outlined who they are, as far as we know. One of these is the opposition party leader's chief of staff, Ali Bin-­Muhammad al-­Rashid.” Click. “He rose from being a government-­sponsored enforcer to the Tiqt chief of police before shifting into politics. He personally placed many of the new city police chiefs, loyal to him alone.”

She clicked to another photograph. “Yesterday, he attended a meeting with a powerful businessman, a staunch conservative who believes Western influence is diluting Islamic culture. He has a history of repressive conduct. We don't know the substance of this meeting. We're trying to find that out now.”

“What's so important about this particular meeting? Was it here?” Mike Boston asked.

Harriet Pangbourn smacked her coffee cup onto the mahogany table. “The meeting was at the Laleh Hotel in Tehran,” she said. “We're worried the conservative movement might be contemplating more direct action against the government. Violence, bombings, up to and including assassination of key political figures. We suspect al-­Rashid might have ties to terrorist training camps.”

“Yes,” agreed Shelby. “If he is sponsoring or importing terrorist leaders, perhaps even placing those leaders within local police forces, it could undo all the good we've done in reducing terrorist capabilities in this country.”

What?

“In the past two years,” she added, “special missions in this country have located and destroyed a large number of weapons caches held by various insurgents and terrorist units. Incidents of terrorist or armed protest are down sixty-­seven percent from when the special missions started. Attacks in industrial centers, in the capital, or in other large cities are poorly thought out and largely ineffective.”

“So as things stand right now, you consider a direct threat against the US president to be low?” Boston asked.

“Yes. It could change over time, but right now, the US and Azakistanis have substantially reduced the threat of terrorist attack.”

Jace sighed. However well-­intentioned, the men and women in this room remained bureaucrats. He glanced toward his boss. Should they correct her?

Just as Bo Granville jerked his chin for Jace to proceed, Trevor spoke up. “Your statistics are undoubtedly correct, Ms. Gibson, but I'm afraid your conclusions are off base.”

Suddenly, the British officer was the focus of ten pairs of eyes.

“All incoming reports having to do with the frequency and intensity of insurgent attacks say their capabilities have been greatly reduced, Major,” said Shelby coolly. “After only a few days on the ground, what do you know that they don't?”

Jace saw Trevor bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “It's not a novel theory, I regret to say,” the SAS officer said. “Your statistics only see the front end. The fringe groups, the barely equipped ones. One-­shot wonders, as I believe you Americans say. They blow up a car, there's some property damage, maybe someone gets hurt or killed. I'm not saying that's acceptable; far from it. But I'm speaking of the more organized groups. Al-­Qaeda. Abu Nidal. The Kongra-­Gel.”

Jowat snorted. “So now you're an expert on Azakistani military operations?”

Trevor's eyes narrowed on him. Jowat had the good sense to sit back in his chair. “The special operations missions are succeeding, as far as it goes. But what's happening out there isn't what you think. Instead of finding a bunch of antiquated AK-­47s and a ­couple of hand grenades, they're finding antitank weapons, wire-­guided missiles, and other high-­tech, NATO weapons.”

The two Secret Ser­vice agents exchanged bewildered looks.