Soar (11 page)

“Miss Nylos, stop right there,” the president interrupted. “I think I already heard a lot of what you’re saying on CNN last week.” The president glared at the DCI. “Nick—can you people please get to the point.”

“Of course, Mr. President.” The DCI’s voice took on a pedantic tone, and he tapped the tabletop with his pen for emphasis. “Point: General Yin believes he is vulnerable to a challenge from Zhou. Point: Yin’s political allies control every military installation and every liter of aviation fuel between Beijing and Xinjiang. Point: There is no way they will make things easy for the young upstart Zhou.”

Rockman’s eyes went wide. “Even though there’s a loose nuke, Nick?”

“Yes,” the DCI said confidently. “Even so.”

Pete Forrest rapped his knuckles on the table edge. “Enough political theory. There are lives on the line. How much time do we have? How much time?”

Margaret Nylos said: “A minimum of four days, Mr. President, from the sample of message traffic we managed to skim this morning. Possibly as many as five days. I’ll know more after the intercepts are translated.”

The president’s jaw dropped. “Miss Nylos, aren’t you the national intelligence officer for China?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“And yet you can’t read Chinese.”

“Mr. President,” Nick Pappas interjected, “I promoted Margaret for her analytical skills, not her language capability.”

Rockman raised his hand. “Nick,” he said.

“Yes?” The DCI shifted his gaze.

Rockman pulled at his earlobe. “I don’t want to sound like a doom-and-gloom kind of guy, but how do you know that the Chinese aren’t putting out false message traffic?”

Pappas said, “False message traffic?”

Monica Wirth cocked her head in the DCI’s direction. “Disinformation, Nick.”

Ritzik watched as Rockman’s right hand slipped into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a thin paperback. The secretary flipped to a page that he’d marked with a yellow Post-it, slipped a pair of half glasses out of his breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and read: “ ‘When strong, appear weak. When brave, appear fearful. When orderly, appear chaotic. Draw your enemy in with the promise of gain, and overcome him through confusion.’”

The secretary dropped the paperback on the table. “That, ladies and gentleman, is Sun-Tzu—the granddaddy of all Chinese generals, including General Zhou and General Yin.”

Nick Pappas’s cheeks grew red. “What’s your point, Rocky?” he asked.

“I guess,” Rockman said dryly, “my point, Nick … and Margaret, is that everything the two of you have told us so far appears to be the result of technical intelligence gathering. But what if Beijing is playing with us—sending out false message traffic in order to deceive us and suck us into a situation that will embarrass the United States? There’s a summit in six weeks, and the Chinese are good at mind games. What’s the hard evidence that your intercepts are genuine? I’ve seen reports from our military attachés in Beijing that describe a possible schism—and I underline the word
possible
—within the PLA. But the mere appearance of a rift between factions isn’t good enough for me. I’d like to know if you have reports from agents on the ground in China who have verified the situation you’ve just described.”

“Jesus Christ, Rocky,” the DCI exploded. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re tossing a wrench is what. Goddammit, you’ve been trying to undermine me from the get-go, and I—”

“Gentlemen, that’s enough.” Pete Forrest’s voice took command of the room. “What has been decided has been decided.” The president stood. He glanced quickly in Mike Ritzik’s direction. “I think we all have a lot of work to do.”

Rockman was first on his feet. “Yes, Mr. President.”

The president focused on Nick Pappas. “Nick, I want you to deliver any information Rocky wants—anything he asks for—without delay.”

“There are certain procedures—” the DCI began.

“I don’t give a damn about procedures,” the president interrupted. “These are your people we’re talking about. If Rocky wants something from you, he gets it. Immediately. No questions. No waiting. No bureaucratic delays for ‘procedures.’ “ He paused. “Have I made myself crystal clear, Nick?”

Pappas glanced around the room. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Good.” Pete Forrest wheeled and left the room.

There was about a quarter minute of dead air. Rockman caught Monica Wirth’s eye. “Can you spare me a few minutes, Monica?”

“I was about to ask you the same question, Mr. Secretary.” The NSC adviser closed the document folder in front of her. “Mr. Director?”

“Monica?”

She held her hand out, palm side up. “I’m going to need those photographs and whatever else you have in that folder.”

The DCI started to object but then thought the better of it. Without a word, he handed the folder to Wirth.

“Thank you, Nick.” The national security adviser turned toward the doorway. “Mr. Secretary, let’s adjourn to my office, shall we?”

A
T LEAST KAZ AND DICK CAMPBELL
were alive. Sam Phillips thanked God for that. They looked like hell. But then, he and X-Man looked worse.

Sam and X-Man were yanked out of the truck, tossed onto the rocky, cold desert floor, and kicked and beaten for having freed themselves. Then they were dragged over to their commandeered 4x4—where Kaz and the Marine stood, still bound and gagged.

All the camera equipment as well as their luggage had been dumped onto the ground, illuminated by headlights from four big trucks with numerals and Chinese characters on the doors. Sam took a fast reading of the situation. The video equipment was still in its cases, sitting on the ground.

Sam gave his team a quick glance and saw in their eyes that they were ready to follow his lead. He wished he had one.

Shoazim. The guide was nowhere to be seen. Sam realized he was probably dead. Brutal as it might sound, that made sense. These people had to know that guides reported to the police. That made Shoazim a collaborator. Also,
Shoazim was of no material value—in fact, he was a drain on whatever rations and supplies the terrorists might have. But they were passing as Brits, Irish, and Canadians—Westerners who could be ransomed.

He smelled cigarettes. Sam’s eyes swept a hundred and eighty degrees, trying not to make direct contact with any of the bad guys, but able to see half a dozen red spots in the darkness as they pulled on their smokes. No one spoke. The four of them were on display. The boss man, whoever he was, was probably trying to figure out how to deal with them. Sam hoped boss man wasn’t a Chechen. Brutality was a way of life in this part of the world, but the Chechens were the worst. In Afghanistan, al-Qaeda’s Chechen fighters had tortured and mutilated every American they’d gotten their hands on. According to one report Sam had read at the time, the Chechens at Takhur Ghar had cut the ears and privates off a Navy SEAL they’d captured before finally putting him out of his misery with a bullet to the brain. Even the Russian light colonel he’d recruited in Tajikistan had warned him to steer clear, “Sam, out here is what we call
dikiy-dikiy vostok—the
Wild, Wild East. Out here, the Tajiks, Turkmen, or Uzbeks, they take no prisoners. But compared to Chechens, Tajiks and Uzbeks—they are nice guys.”

Sam’s mind was racing. His most important job was to keep everyone alive. To do that, he knew that he had, somehow, to establish control. Control was the key. That was the first rule of case-officerdom he’d been taught at the Farm.

No matter how desperate or dicey the situation might be, the instructors told them over and over, you always try to gain control. Just the way you control your agents, your developmental—everyone you deal with. And even if you’re captured, or detained, you work to establish some form of
control over the people who grabbed you. You come up with a tactical strategy—and you find a way to execute it.

It’s like that old cartoon, one instructor’d said, the one in which two guys are manacled to a wall, hand and foot, suspended twenty feet above a pair of hungry lions. There’s no window to their cell, and the lions are between them and the door—which is locked from the outside—and besides, they’re chained up. So one guy is saying to the other, “Now, here’s my plan…”

Sam understood that he had to find a way to establish control over the lions who were holding them hostage. Even though the lions had just beaten the crap out of them. Even though the lions were holding automatic weapons.

And so, he struggled to his feet.

From somewhere, a heavy boot swept his legs out from under him. Sam went crashing face first onto the desert floor.

Scattered laughter erupted from the darkness beyond the truck headlights.

Establish control.
Sam fought the pain and the panic that was rising in his throat. He pushed himself off the sand.

A shadow loomed in front of him. Sam looked up. He was a large man, with a Saddam Hussein mustache and a single, prehominid eyebrow. He was dressed in a PLA uniform jacket and what looked like U.S. Army-surplus woodland-camouflage BDU trousers. Even in the nighttime coolness he reeked of sweat, garlic, and tobacco. In his left hand was an AK-47, its barrel pointed at the ground.

Slowly, Mustache Man brought the weapon up, up, up, until its muzzle was even with Sam’s clavicle.
“Tökhtang
—stop.”

Sam raised himself farther off the ground.

The AK’s front sight jabbed against his chest.
“Tökhtang!”

Sam fought to keep his eyes steady and his voice even.
“Siz Inglizcha gaplashasizmi?
Do you speak English?”

In response, he received another shove with the AK’s muzzle.

He took the risk of getting shot by pushing back.
“Siz Inglizcha gaplashasizmi?”

After what seemed to him like a decade, the pressure of the AK barrel on his chest was reduced slightly.
“Inglizcha?”

Sam pushed himself on to his knees, and then stood up as straight as he could, looking directly into Mustache Man’s black eyes. He anticipated the boot coming at his legs again, but nothing happened.
“Kha,”
he said. “Yes,
Inglizcha.”

“Men Inglizcha. Uzbekchada, Ruscha, Tojik.”

Mustache Man’s accent was Uzbek, not Chechen. A huge surge of relief washed over Sam. But outwardly, he showed nothing.

The Uzbek’s eyes bore into him. Sam realized he had to speak—the team’s lives depended on what he’d say, and how he’d say it. But he didn’t trust his Tajik or Uzbek. “We are English,” he said in halting Russian. “Journalists. Media. We work for a television company in London. We do not understand why you have taken us”—he tugged at his brain for the right word—“prisoner,” he finally said. He paused, translating in his head before he spoke. “Please free my friends. Please give us all some water, or tea, and some rice. It has been a long time since we have had anything to eat or drink.”

Mustache Man said nothing. But he stepped back three paces and lowered the AK’s barrel. Sam was relieved until he realized the muzzle was pointed directly at his crotch and Muzzle Man’s finger was still wrapped around the trigger.

There followed what could only be described as a long, unnatural pause. And then Mustache Man lowered the muzzle
of the AK until it pointed into the desert floor. He looked at Sam and said in Russian, “Journalists?”

“Television journalists,” Sam said.

“Television. BBC?”

“Yes, just like BBC,” Sam said.

Mustache Man said, “You make television of us?”

“Of course,” Sam said. “We can make a video of you. An interview. And then, after we leave, we can show it on television. The whole world will see and hear you.”

Mustache Man said, “Show me.”

Sam looked at his three companions. “Free them. Give us water and rice. And then we will be happy to show you.”

“You show me
now.”
Mustache Man swept the AK’s muzzle across Sam’s body. One-handed, he fired a long burst into Dick Campbell’s chest. The Marine was blown two yards backward, dead by the time Sam screamed,
“No!”

“I said you show me now.” Mustache Man butt-stroked Sam with the AK, knocking him onto his face. He reached down, grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt, and started dragging him toward the video equipment.

Sam twisted free of Mustache Man’s grip. He rolled onto his hands and knees, crawled to get away. But the Uzbek followed. Sam tried to struggle to his feet. He got a roundhouse kick that sent pain from his hip into his eye sockets.

Mustache Man stood over him. The AK started to come up. Sam’s palms went up. “Please,” he said. “I’ll show you. But I’m going to need help.” Sam’s brain wasn’t being helpful. Suddenly he’d lost every bit of Russian he’d ever known. He fought to remember the vocabulary, then, like some kind of demented child, spoke slowly, in a monotone. “They have to help me.”

There was a pause. Sam chanced a quick look up at Mustache Man, wincing in anticipation of a rifle butt—or a bullet.
Mustache Man’s face told him the guerrilla was debating whether or not to shoot them all.

Finally, the Uzbek said,
“Da.
Show me.” He flicked a glance into the darkness. Kaz’s gag was pulled off, and his arms freed. Sam looked into the kid’s eyes and knew he was in shock. Well, Kaz wasn’t the only one. Sam had never lost an agent. But now he’d just killed a colleague. Dick was dead because of him. Because of his stupidity. His game playing. Stupid goddamn game playing.

Sam’s eyes lost focus. He started to hyperventilate. It was X-Man who brought him back. Chris took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Sam,” he said. “Sam, we have to get to work. The man’s waiting.”

Sam blinked a few times. “Get to work.” He looked over at the Marine’s bound, gagged corpse. There’d been no time for anything. Not even a good-bye glance. Now Dick was dead. Murdered. The rage started to build inside Sam now. His eyes grew wide. His fists clenched. And then Sam’s training took over and he shut down the partition inside him that hurt more than he’d ever realized anybody could hurt, and he nodded his head and said, numbly, “Okay, Chris.”