The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (41 page)

82

K
halid watched Haider and Sabour enter the hotel breakfast nook together and wondered if Haider was cooking up a scheme separate from him. It would do no good. Khalid had had a long talk with Sabour after the meeting in Haider’s room, and Sabour, like Khalid, understood commitment.

The two sat down, and Khalid exchanged strained pleasantries with Haider, then ate in silence. They finished breakfast, then started the hour-plus drive to Fredrikstad. They stopped for gas twice on the trip, the last on Highway 110 just before it intersected with 111, the open fields blanketed with snow and giving the air a quiet feel.

Haider went to the men’s room and when he returned, Khalid was leaning against the SUV, rubbing his hands in the cold. He said, “We’re close to the old town. Where from here?”

“It’s about five miles away.” He glanced at Sabour in the driver’s seat, making sure the window was up, then said, “Look, Khalid, we are friends. We cannot continue fighting each other and expect to succeed. I don’t want to do that.”

Khalid said, “Neither do I, brother. Neither do I.”

Haider smiled and held out his hand, saying, “My father is right about you. You
are
my brother.”

The words reinforced the steel in Khalid’s soul, forging yet again
the desire to please Sharif and earn his place at the table. He became emotional, his eyes misting. He said, “Let’s make our destiny.”

Haider opened the passenger door and said, “Let’s do it.”

Sabour put the Range Rover into drive, and Haider opened a sheet of paper, reading directions. He said, “You’ll go for another mile on this highway. Look for a side road on the left that disappears into the woods. Billings said it would be easy to find because it’s the only road that goes into a stand of forest. All the others go into bald fields.”

They pulled out and continued, passing an occasional car on the left and some Norwegians walking on a footpath on the right. They entered a lightly wooded area, the barren trees looking like skeletons, and Haider said, “Slow down. Keep your eyes out. It’ll be a gated road.”

Ahead, a tall wooden fence began tracking the highway. They traveled down it for about half a mile, and then saw a thin ribbon of asphalt slipping into the woods.

“That’s it,” said Haider.

They turned onto the road and drove for about a quarter of a mile through the woods before the asphalt ended, hitting another gate with a gravel drive beyond it and a two-story stone house about a hundred meters away. At the second gate were several men dressed in suits and overcoats.

Sabour pulled to a stop.

One man came to the window and said, “Haider al-Attiya?”

Sabour said nothing. Haider said, “I am al-Attiya. From the Qatar Investment Authority, here to meet with Secretary Billings.”

The man said, “We’ve been expecting you. Please, I need all in the car to exit for a search.”

That had never happened before. Haider said, “Of course, of course,” and opened the door. Khalid did the same, but watched closely.

Before he’d even exited the vehicle, a two-man team was sweeping
the underside of the Range Rover with a mirror attached to a pole and another man was working some sort of electronic tablet, aiming it at the vehicle and watching the screen. The interest in their vehicle brought something new to the game, and Khalid wondered if they should be worried.

On the one hand, it might simply be new security procedures because of what the American had done in Delphi. A knee-jerk reaction to protect the security force’s own reputation, since they’d failed to do anything about the assassin in Greece.

Or it might be something more sinister.

He saw a man slide into the driver’s seat and begin manipulating all of the controls, making sure they worked as intended. Two other men moved all three of them away from the vehicle, then searched them, apologizing as they did it.

When that was complete, one man used a clipboard and began questioning them, having them produce passports and other identification. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on Sabour’s passport, asking specific questions about where he’d received it and how long he’d used it, focusing on the fact that the only visa was for Norway.

Khalid interrupted, saying, “Look, sir, I understand the protection, but Secretary Billings is the man who worked to give him that visa. We are here on his invitation. If you have questions about that, you should direct them to him.”

Khalid couldn’t see the eyes behind the dark sunglasses. The security man said, “You and Haider can go to the house. Your driver will wait here.”

Showing concern, Haider said, “Why? What has he done?”

Khalid waved his hand and said, “That’s fine. Do we just walk right up?”

“Yes. Ring the bell at the front door. Another member of our detail will meet you.”

To Sabour, Khalid said, “Wait here. We won’t be long.”

He flicked his eyes at Haider, willing him to calm down. They began walking down the gravel track that led to the house and Haider said, “That has never, ever happened before. They know.”

“Calm down. If they
knew
, we’d be lying on the ground in handcuffs. It’s just because of that attack at Delphi. The dog American that Billings told you about is the root of this. It was Billings’s problem to deal with, and he didn’t, leading to the attack. Their intelligence agencies are probably all blaming each other over the mess, and searching for scapegoats. They are no different than our own royal family, looking for people to blame.”

He gave Haider a hard stare and said, “Don’t let it interfere.”

They reached the front door of the stone manor and Haider rang the bell. Another man answered and asked for their passports, incongruously wearing sunglasses indoors.

They both presented their documents and were allowed into the foyer. Khalid glanced around, seeing Billings’s ubiquitous assistant—Leslie something or other—but saw no other security. The man led them into a great room and said, “Take a seat.”

They did, Khalid feeling a little angst with the formality. Wondering if it was a reflection of the location, or something else.

They sat for twenty minutes, the dark wood and heavy drapes of the house feeding Khalid’s anxiety. The cottage was not an inviting place. More like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale. He looked at Haider and saw the same worry reflected in his expression. He thought about standing up and leaving, but knew that was impossible. Not if he wanted to earn the respect of Sharif’s father. He was committed, and he would see it through. But he could prepare, just in case.

He said, “Is there a bathroom I could use?”

The security man said, “Yes, down this hallway, first door on the left.”

Khalid glanced at Haider, then followed the directions, looking for other security. Trying to determine what he was up against. He reached the bathroom and saw two men reading magazines in a bedroom, both glancing up when he approached. On the table between them was an HK MP7 sitting next to a vase of flowers as if it was just one more decoration.

They were definitely security. So three at least.

From the attack at Delphi, he remembered that the secretary had a detail of about five shooters, not counting the drivers and other hangers-on. The gate they’d passed through had six people, but most were probably specialists on antiterrorism and installation protection, not personal security. Meaning they were paid to prevent bad things but wouldn’t react if the bad thing happened. But at least two were shooters. So it was a good bet that he faced only three inside the house.

He left the bathroom and found Haider engaging the lone security man in conversation, talking about trips abroad, the assistant ignoring them both. The security man laughed, relaxed and enjoying the discussion. Khalid felt the fear slip away. He was being paranoid.

He sat down and Secretary Billings appeared. He nodded at Khalid, then said, “Haider, could I talk to you for a moment in private?”

Khalid watched them disappear, wondering. He saw Billings glance back at the security man, then at him. And it became clear.

He knows.

83

T
he Gulfstream hit the tarmac of Moss Rygge airport, only about thirty minutes away from Fredrikstad, and I immediately began issuing orders. Basically repeating what I’d already said, but hell, that’s what leaders do.

Repeat shit over and over.

“Okay, we have no idea what we’re doing here, so I need a split evacuation of the aircraft. I want both long guns and surveillance kit. We might be going offensive, or we might just be tagging and tracking. When the customs guys get here, Brett handles them. We’re members of Grolier Recovery Service, and we’re here to look at the fortifications of Old Town Fredrikstad. That’s all you need to say.”

Knuckles had already moved to the rear of the aircraft and had begun making a list of what to remove after customs was through with their inspection.

Nick said, “I’m . . . not really read in to the whole cover story of Grolier. I can’t fake it.”

I said, “Just fake the fact that we hired you for aircraft purposes. You can do that with your Air Force background. Anyone asks you in-depth questions about GRS, you point at Jennifer and tell them she’s the spokesperson. You’re just the hired help.”

He said, “How is that going to solve anything?”

I looked at Jennifer with a “help me here” glance. I knew she’d
studied up as soon as she learned where we were going. She said, “Fredrikstad was originally founded in the sixteenth century by King Fredrik II. The old town is the finest European example of a fortified city. It was originally built—”

I waved a hand, cutting her off. I said, “Trust me, she can talk the talk.”

Knuckles issued orders, organizing the load-out, knowing the pressure we were under. He got the team moving, doing what they could before immigration showed up, then sat down across from me, looking for answers. Answers I didn’t have.

He said, “What’s the play here? What are we doing?”

I said, “Knuckles, you’re asking for a miracle with that question. I don’t know. You heard my conversation with Blaine.
He
doesn’t even know.”

I’d spent the night getting one data dump after another from the Taskforce, all indicating something evil but, outside of the term
shahid
, nothing specifically pointed to a smoking gun. The thumb drives had showed unequivocally that the al-Attiya clan was involved in some seriously bad activities, but none of it involved what we’d call “actionable intelligence.”

There were lots of potential connections to both past and future operations, but no black-and-white order to kill the secretary of state or blow up the peace talks. No outright proof of malevolent actions, which is really what always occurred. No terrorist in his right mind talked about his actions in the open. At least no terrorist who wanted to live beyond a day and a half.

It was all innuendo, requiring massive cross-checks and linkage exploration. After the initial analysis of the data, we had a ton of smoke, which would have been good enough to continue watching the QIA team, but not solid proof for anything more than that. With the exception of one thing: the word
shahid
.

It was an Arabic term meaning “witness” but had, in the modern
jihadi world, evolved into meaning someone who died fulfilling a religious obligation. Someone who had become a martyr in the course of jihad, and it had been used as the notation beside the fake Afghanistan passport. It could mean only one thing: He was going to kill himself for Islam. Meaning he was going to kill more than just himself.

Once airborne, I’d called Blaine, himself flying out of Washington, DC. He was the officer in charge of Omega operations, but we hadn’t yet been given that authority, so it was a little strange, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was happy Kurt had sent him. He was a backstop I might potentially need.

He’d answered the call mid-flight, saying, “So I guess I’m heading into operations with my favorite team. Thank heavens for that.”

I’d laughed, because he said that to every team he was going to control, then I countered with, “I’m not so sure about that. From what I hear, the Army is giving you your walking papers. Not sure I want to be under the command of someone who can’t even get promoted.”

He said, “It’s already done. I’m on terminal leave right now. It could cause a conflict of interest, since I’m working a government job paid for by the Oversight Council while still on active duty. Hard to say if anyone will pay attention to a lowly lieutenant colonel, though.”

I took that in, trying to make sense of it, then said, “Sir? The Army really pulled the trigger? Fired you?”

He said, “Well . . . yes and no. I took Kurt’s option. I’m now a civilian like you. But if you think I’ll take your shit because of it, you’re sorely mistaken.”

That brought a grin, because he’d been covering my butt for years for things I’d done, taking more than his fair share of Pike trouble. I said, “That’s the best possible solution. Welcome to the real world. You ready to slay some monsters?”

He said, “Oh yeah, but I’m not sure that’s what we’re looking at.”

I said, “We’re looking at a clown who received a fake passport to kill people. It’s pretty clear.”

Blaine said, “Yeah, I’m with you, but the attack may be months from now. I mean, why give him an Afghanistan passport? Maybe they’re prepping him for that theater.”

“Why bring him to Norway, then? Where the peace talks are happening?”

I heard my voice rising as I talked and regretted it. I needed to remain unemotional.

Blaine said, “Pike, I hear you, but you’re forgetting that we control Billings. He has an entire diplomatic security team there. We’ve been in contact with Billings, and he’s read on to the threat.”

“What’s that mean in real terms?”

“It means there
is
no immediate threat. The only immediate threat is the peace talks, and they won’t be allowed to go to them. Best case, we’ve solved the problem with a phone call. Worst case, Billings has a threat against him, personally, but we have the men there to neutralize any attempt. They have the ball. Honestly, I don’t see this as a Taskforce mission. I’m glad to play, but I don’t think we’re worth putting on the field.”

I said, “Maybe. Maybe you’re right, but you’re forgetting what Billings is like. Forgetting what he’s done in the past. That assclown will neutralize his own security.”

“Pike, come on. He might be a jerk, but he’s not going to let them get near the meetings. He’s got marching orders from the president of the United States.”

“So they’re going to arrest the guys from Qatar when they show up?”

“No. Hell no. Of course not. What proof do we have to do that? Nothing. A thumb drive from a bank we never entered. Secretary Billings doesn’t even believe the evidence we have, and he’s certainly not going to explode the peace talks with allegations of infiltration of a Qatari suicide team.”

I’d taken that in, which was about what I’d expected. I said, “So we’re back at square one.”

“Well, yeah, except I’m in the air, and you’re about to be on the ground. I’ll be an hour behind you. You can call that square one, but I call it endgame.”

I’d disconnected the call and rode the aircraft onto the tarmac, ignoring the stares from the team.

Now on the ground, Knuckles was asking a valid question: What the hell were we doing?

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the immigration officials, forcing all of us into cover mode, answering their questions politely. Led around by Brett, my crew went through the usual pathetic customs inventory that anyone gets as a chartered aircraft in a European city, and the men left, satisfied that we were who we said we were.

Knuckles got the team moving, breaking open panels on the interior of the aircraft that exposed a host of James Bond surveillance kit, along with our lethal tools in case surveillance turned into assault.

Satisfied the team was executing his orders, he sat back down, facing me.

“Pike, I understand the pressure, but you’ve got to give us some focus here. Talking long guns and surveillance isn’t cutting it.”

I thought about my response, and Guy’s face appeared out of nowhere, demanding the same answer. I realized I didn’t care about protecting Billings or the peace talks. I wanted vengeance, pure and simple. Knuckles saw the change. Recognized where I was.

He said, “Pike, are we sure about this? Don’t let Guy’s death cause you to make a decision you’ll regret. Maybe Billings is right for once.”

I sat for a moment, quelling the beast. A strange thing that was now a part of my essence, but something that I’d learned to control, almost at will. Almost.

Knuckles said, “Pike?”

I said, “Okay, for starters, we’ll just deploy to the secretary’s location. We’ll get eyes on the targets and continue with our Alpha mission. Surveil them for follow-on operations. It’ll probably be nothing. Billings agreed not to take them to the meetings. Problem solved.”

But I didn’t believe it. And neither did the beast. From the data we’d found, I knew the Arab I’d fought in Greece was here, and he was looking for trouble.

We finished the load-out, all equipment stowed in innocuous suitcases, and moved to the rental car counters. I told Knuckles to get two cars, not that we needed the space but because we might need the flexibility.

I saw a counter for motorcycle tours, advertising BMW bikes for running around the fjords. I said, “Veep, you’ve done mobility stuff in your units, right?”

He quit fidgeting with his bag and said, “Yeah. Why?”

“You do any biking there in the special tactics squadron?”

“All the time.”

Knuckles came back with the keys to two vehicles, one a van, the other a sedan. Brett was standing next to me, and I knew he could do what I was asking of Nick.

I said to Nick, “How about renting two of those Beemers for a few days? You and Brett.”

Knuckles said, “Why?”

I said, “Because I want the flexibility. I don’t believe a word I said to you earlier. I don’t care what Billings thinks. Those assholes are here for a reason, and the fight is coming to us.”