One Child (35 page)

Chapter

66

Boston, Massachusetts

The time difference between Kandahar and Boston was eight hours. That was enough time for
Russell
's film to reach the television station and be edited for the nightly news on August 23
rd
, the same day it was shot on the other side of the world.

(Click here to watch this video)

There were hard decisions to be made about the video. It was graphic and clearly showed a US soldier killing a young Afghan girl. The light levels were adequate for viewing the images and understanding them in a general sense, but not substantial enough to make out all the details. The audio on the film was crude and needed to be censored for content, but its rawness gave it a powerful punch. The images of the M-4 backfiring and killing Bobby were deemed too bloody for network television. The decision came down from the top at ten minutes before the top of the hour. It was a go. The remainder of the video, minus Bobby's death, was put on the air at six o'clock.

The video went viral almost immediately. Once the network had aired it across the US, the edited footage was released to CNN and the other major networks. The moment it was in the public domain, it hit YouTube and a host of other video sites. By midnight on the east coast, the video had been viewed over twenty million times and the number was growing exponentially.

Chat rooms on the Internet were busy, people engaging in the incident. It was early in the discussions, but the trends were already establishing. Most viewers' sympathy extended not only to the father, but also to the soldier who had fired the killing shot. There was considerable talk about the unforgiving conditions the soldiers were facing. The more viewers waded in on the issue, the hotter it got. Halima's death was becoming a world-shaking event.

* * *

FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan

Russell
lay on his cot in the FOB at Ma'sum ghar, staring at the ceiling. His computer was shut down for the night, but not before he had seen the reaction to his footage. Closing his eyes was useless. His mind continued to replay the images of what had happened. The quickness and brutal reality of the young girl's death. The senselessness. He turned his head slightly toward
Andrew
's bunk. The specialist was lying on his back, his eyes wide open.

"You okay?"
Russell
asked quietly.

Andrew
slowly rolled his head to the side. "Not really." His voice cracked with emotion. "She was just a little girl."

Russell
could see the tears in the low light that filtered in through the windows. "
Andrew
, no one is going to believe you meant to kill her."

"But I did."

Russell
didn't respond. What could he say to that? It was a simple and irrefutable truth.

"I didn't sign up for this,"
Andrew
said. There was a hollow resonance in the words. "I just wanted to make a difference."

"You tried,"
Russell
said. "You're here for the right reasons."

"Yeah." A long pause, then, "This is going to hit the fan, isn't it."

"It already has."

Andrew
rolled slightly and propped himself on his elbow. "The press will dig into my life, won't they?"

"Like vultures on a carcass."
Russell
read
Andrew
's expression and continued, "It doesn't matter what they think. It's the guys inside the wire who matter. None of them are going to judge you."

Andrew
remained propped up on his elbow for a minute, then slowly lay flat on his back. A tortured voice broke the silence. "I killed a little girl,
Russell
." The words could barely make it out between the sobs. His body was wracked with convulsions. "I killed her."

"You had no choice once Bobby went down."

"Fucking defective gun. If it hadn't jammed and backfired..."

"Yeah,"
Russell
said. "Bad luck, that."

They lay alone in the darkness while the world watched their story unfold.

Chapter

67

Moscow, August 24th, 12:45 pm

"Have you seen this?"
Carson
asked.

Julie
looked up from the diagram of the underground tunnel systems and focused on the television. It was tuned to the English-speaking CNN channel and a talking head was centered on the screen with a picture of a young girl inset on the upper right hand corner.

"Turn it up, please," she said. "I can't hear it."

Carson
adjusted the volume until the woman's voice was audible through the hotel suite.

"Her name was Halima, and this video was shot by
Russell
Matthews, a freelance journalist embedded with troops in the Kandahar region of Afghanistan. This footage is graphic and it is real. It was shot yesterday, August 23rd, just before sunset on the southern edge of Kandahar City."

The screen changed. Gone were the uniform studio lighting and the carefully applied makeup. Instead, the cameraman was moving and the picture was grainy and shaking. The low light made it difficult to discern exactly what was happening. The voices coming through with the images were clear – at least three soldiers, all yelling at each other. An Afghan man in a tunic shouting frantically. A man in a white shirt next to him. Shadows moving in the background – silhouettes of men with guns coming towards them down the hill. Then shots. One soldier down and another firing at the man in the tunic. More yelling. Then silence. The soldier moving in on the fallen man with the camera following. The first images of a young girl lying next to the man. The man crying her name.

Halima.

The camera shifted to the soldier. He raised his hand to his head in disbelief at the scene before him.

The screen returned to the studio and the anchor.

"The soldier has been identified as Specialist
Andrew
James, from Pismo Beach, California. This is his second tour in Afghanistan and he has seen action many times throughout southern Afghanistan. The girl was Halima Hussein, and information on why she and her father were on the hillside just outside the city is only starting to filter in. What we're hearing, and this has yet to be confirmed, is that Halima had been sold and was being delivered to the man in the white shirt when the troops stumbled on them. We will update this information as things become clearer. In the meantime, one thing remains certain. Halima, who had recently turned twelve, was shot and killed yesterday in a tragic turn of events in Kandahar, Afghanistan."

"It's on every station,"
Carson
said, hitting the power button. "All the Russian networks are carrying it."

"Horrible,"
Julie
said. "What was that about her father selling her?"

Carson
shrugged. "No idea. It's the first I heard about it."

Julie
shook her head and looked back at the drawings. "Today is the 24
th
. We have until tomorrow night at eight to dismantle Miller's handiwork." She glanced up at
Carson
. "Evan and one of my field crew are taking the tunnels west of Eframova Street. You and I will concentrate on the ones to the east."

"Got it."

Julie
pushed her hair back from her face and straightened up. "Are you sure you're up to this?

He nodded emphatically. "Getting out of here and doing something is exactly what I need."

"It's illegal." She glanced at him. "Do you understand how dangerous this is? If we get caught, we'll be in prison. Dimitri
Volstov
can probably get us out, but there are no guarantees."

"I understand."

The door opened and Evan entered, accompanied by another man who would be heading into the tunnels with Evan. They gathered around the table. Evan set a cloth bag on the table.

"It's exactly what you asked for," he said.

Julie
picked up the bag and slipped her hand inside. She pulled out a Glock 17C pistol. She set it on the table and shook the bag. Four clips, loaded with bullets, spilled onto the drawings. She picked up the gun, looked to see if it was loaded, then spent a minute checking the trigger pressure, the slide and the other working parts. Satisfied, she set it on the edge of the table.

"Good work," she said. "Did you manage to find one for yourself?"

"I sure did," Evan said. "Glocks are easy to find in Russia."

"How about me?"
Carson
asked. "I'm feeling a bit left out here."

"Nice try,"
Julie
said. "Not a chance."

"We have the rest of the equipment. Bolt cutters, portable GPS units, backpacks, waterproof boots, walkie-talkies and halogen lights. And," he held up a small screen about the size of an iPad, "I bought this as well. It's a mobile tracking unit so that someone on the surface can see where our GPS units are at all times. That way, you won't get lost. Or if you do, we'll be able to find you."

"Well done." She checked her watch. "It's one o'clock. Thirty-one hours until the band steps on stage. Let's go."

They bundled up the plans, tucked the guns in their backpacks, shouldered the rest of the gear and headed down to the street where an SUV with a driver was waiting. They drove to a park near the sports complex, parked in a remote corner of the lot and suited up. The grate was set back into a large group of shrubs, which hid them from view as they cut off the padlocks. Once they were in, the driver closed the metal grill and slipped the severed locks back in place. Only a close examination would reveal they had been cut. The driver remained above ground with the vehicle and the GPS tracking unit.

They paired up, switched on their lights and
Julie
led the way underground. A steep set of stairs led down, the temperature dropping quickly and the light fading until it was completely dark. The two groups went in opposite directions at the first fork in the tunnel.
Carson
followed
Julie
, who was moving at a fast clip, GPS unit in hand. She seemed to know where she was going and didn't slow through the dark and confusing maze. Finally, she stopped and had
Carson
help her unroll the drawings.

"Okay, we're here," she said, marking a spot on the paper with a fine-tip red felt pen. "The tunnels that handle the electrical conduits converge with the storm sewer we're in right now in about a hundred meters. From here on, we should be looking for any recent activity. New or disturbed mortar, or bricks sticking out a bit so they can find them again. Things like that."

"Okay."

Carson
adjusted the light so the beam splayed out a bit more, illuminating the sides of the tunnel better.
Julie
concentrated on the left side of the underground channel and he scanned the right. They continued at a much slower pace until they reached the convergence point. It turned out to be a solid wall of concrete between the two tunnels - there was no chance Miller and his team had used this point to tap into the electrical system.

"Damn,"
Julie
said. She pulled the drawings out and checked for the next place where the two tunnel systems ran parallel. "This way," she said, starting out down a fork to the left.

Carson
fell in behind her, wondering if she knew where they were and how to get out. Water dripped from the ceilings and in places their footing was treacherous. Entering the tunnels had only increased the danger in his life. Now, in addition to being tracked by a psychotic killer, he was at risk of running afoul of the Russian police or getting lost in the concrete and brick labyrinth.

At least he had a chance. He couldn't say the same of
Nicki
. Her chances of survival had dropped to zero, thanks to him. He had played his cards for an uncaring and greedy man. He only had himself to blame. Of everything, that was the most difficult to take.

Chapter

68

Moscow, August 24th, 1:30 pm

Thirty hours had passed since he had arrived in Moscow and Alexi had yet to locate
Carson
Grant. It was making him crazy.

He sipped an espresso, smoked a thin cigar and watched people walk past the trendy bistro as he played out the situation in his mind. Grant would stay off the radar, but
Julie
Lindstrom would show up somewhere. And when he found her, he would find the Wall Street banker. He wasn't worried about locating Grant, but he was worried about running out of time. They were less than thirty-six hours from crippling the U2 concert and he needed Grant dead before then.

He had spent an hour setting up travel arrangements to New York for ten o'clock tomorrow night. A back up plan in case he missed killing Grant in the allowable time frame. A quick flight to the Big Apple and
Fleming
would be sorry he had ever started this whole mess. Actually,
Fleming
would be dead and dead people didn't care about much.

Alexi's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. He answered and a man's voice rattled off some names and addresses while he jotted them down on a piece of scrap paper. He thanked the man, promised to send money and hung up. He had her.
Julie
Lindstrom had booked her hotel rooms at the Ararat Park Hyatt through Evan Lucas, an employee of
Details Matter
. But his source had dug up more than simply their location. He had delivered the mother lode.

Evan Lucas had also used his credit card to make some very unusual purchases. Two portable GPS units, halogen lamps and waterproof boots among other things. They were heading into the tunnels. Lindstrom was a smart woman and he had little doubt that she was keeping
Carson
Grant close to her. Which meant that they would be in the tunnels together. That put them underground, in the dark and away from witnesses.

Lindstrom had a modicum of training with the FBI and Grant had no idea what he was doing. They were no match for him. Lindstrom and Grant would die like sewer rats in the tunnels under Moscow. Alexi paid his tab and hailed a cab. He gave the driver the address of the Ararat Park Hyatt. Patience was the key now.

* * *

Moscow, August 24th, 2:45 pm

The television in the luxury hotel suite was tuned to BBC.

Four men sat and watched the latest news on Halima. There was mounting proof that the gun belonging to the deceased soldier was defective. And that no one had fired on the troops. The reporter was checking on where the gun had been shipped in from, but so far had been unable to determine its origin.

Kadir, Halima's father, was interviewed from his hospital bed. He held her picture, the one that was on every television worldwide, in his good hand. Through an interpreter he tearfully told the reporters that he had sold his daughter to a man from Pakistan for fifteen hundred US dollars with the promise that she would be attending school in Peshawar. He held up his crushed hand and told of how he was unable to work, and that supporting his three children was impossible. The reporter, a serious-looking woman in her thirties with an English accent, thanked him and walked out of the room. In the hallway, she faced the camera and spoke.

"
What Kadir Hussein did not know,
" she said, "
was that Tabraiz Masood was not taking Halima to a family in Peshawar to live in their house as a servant. There was no school waiting for her. No chance to work hard, graduate, and become a teacher. Tabraiz Masood was a slave trader and Halima was destined for the United Arab Emirates, where a wealthy businessman was waiting for her. That was the future awaiting this young girl. The same future that awaits many.
"

The reporter signed off.

The talking head from the London studio came on. "
This story is gaining momentum with every hour,
" he said. "
It has been nineteen hours since Halima's death, and people worldwide are listening, connecting, and getting involved. There is sadness. There is outrage. There is bewilderment. And...there is understanding for
Andrew
James, the American soldier who fired the shot
."

The man's face faded and the screen went to the now-familiar video. The audio on the film was notched down a few decibels and the anchor's voice-over dominated. "
Sentiment is on the side of the troops, whether they are US, British, Canadian, Australian, or any of the other forty-three nationalities on the ground in Afghanistan. The conditions under which decisions are made are somewhere between difficult and deplorable.
"

The rest of the story unfolded and the video ended. The picture reverted to the London studio. "
We will follow this story as it unfolds. In other news...
"

The mood in the hotel room was somber. One of the men walked over and picked up a guitar. He strummed some chords. Another found some drumsticks and tapped out a beat on the table. A bass guitar was leaning against the wall and the third man brought it into the mix. The most recognizable of the four hummed in tune to the chords and added an occasional string of words. They stopped and started, changed the key, added richness to the chords, then cut it back to give the sound a raw edge. For the next two hours they hammered away at the song and the lyrics. By suppertime, U2 had written the song they would use to open the concert in Moscow.

One Child.