Extreme Faction (32 page)

“What do you think?” Nelsen asked.

Jake lowered the binoculars to his chest. “I think we're nuts. The place looks like a military fort.”

“What do you mean? All the men have gone off in other directions.”

“Looking for us. No doubt.”

“True.”

“Where were you planning on dropping the commandos?”

Nelsen pointed down the dirt road below the village. “We would have come in under darkness, though.”

“Hardly. Who in the hell set up the timing? You, me and Garcia would have gotten here after the shooting started. In full daylight. We should have gotten here at midnight with night vision goggles...the works.”

“I didn't plan this one,” Nelsen said, his jaw clenched. “This one was Langley all the way.”

“I had a feeling,” he muttered. Jake looked out through the binoculars again. “The new Agency is just as fucked up as the old Agency.”

“You got a better plan?”

Jake gazed back at Nelsen. “You got that right.” He laid out what he thought they should do. When he was done, Nelsen let out a deep sigh and agreed. They would hold tight until dark.

●

Sinclair Tucker had heard about the American helicopter being shot down by a guard who had brought him his breakfast. It had been the arrogant young man in his early twenties. Tucker wondered now if his friend Jake Adams had been in the chopper. He knew that Jake was crazy enough to come after him. He smiled now, his first smile since he himself had crashed.

He tried to eat the mushy grain covered in goat's milk, but he couldn't force himself this time. His leg was feeling a little better. The swelling was down slightly.

Looking over at the co-pilot, he slid off of his makeshift bed and scooted over to the man in the flight suit. Tucker touched the man's hand, and quickly pulled his hand away. He was cold and clammy. He moved closer and checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing. He was dead.

Tucker flung the bowl of food against the stone wall. Now he was alone. His survival depended on keeping his mind fresh and nursing his leg. Heated anger flushed through his body. If he got a chance now, he would try to go after the guard.

●

Chavva was in a small cafe in the village, the only restaurant in town. She was drinking coffee and eating eggs with a slice of lamb.

She was wearing a black skirt that rested on her ankles, a tan blouse covered by a long leather jacket, and heel-less leather shoes. She could have fit into any Turkish village, and her Kurdish while ordering her food, had been perfect. Some things were never forgotten. The owner, an older woman, had mentioned she had not seen her in town before, and she had said she was visiting an old friend. Chavva knew the woman would never ask for a name. That was a trait of prying westerners.

She would walk the streets throughout the day, freely. And wait for her time. The night.

Darkness was complete across Kurdistan. Heavy clouds had moved in from the west, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. And that's exactly how Jake wanted it. He and Steve Nelsen had slowly crept down the side of the mountain, starting at ten. It was now almost midnight. Just eight hours before the Turkish Air Force was scheduled to bomb the area back to the stone age.

Jake and Steve were above the barn converted into a laboratory. They would enter from the back, one at a time. Jake agreed to go first.

He was outside the old wooden door that would normally be used to usher goats and sheep out of the elements, but was now locked tight with a padlock. He checked the strength of the wood. It was solid. He would never pick this lock.

He moved to his left where a window was covered with wood. It too was solid. Then he had a thought. The place was old. Many times there was space between the outside pens and the inside stalls. He climbed over the fence among the sleeping sheep. A few stirred as if a wolf was among the fold. He got to his knees and dug with his hands at the base of the building. First there was hay and sheep dung mixed, and then he felt a space. About six to eight inches. He stopped and listened. Nothing. Then he found a rock and started scraping away the loose dirt until he had more than a foot to crawl through.

In a second he was inside. He had only a small flashlight, but a dim red light shone from across the room, so he could make his way without stumbling and save the light. Other than the smell, the place was nothing like a barn. There were stainless steel benches, microscopes, refrigerators; all the equipment for a modern lab.

Jake wasn't sure what he was looking for. He hoped to find a folder or a file with the magical words “formula” sprawled across the front, but that wasn't likely. In the obscurity of near darkness, he started rummaging through a file cabinet. It was nearly empty. One drawer contained chemistry text books. Another had papers, copies of articles from prominent American and British medical journals. There was nothing here, Jake was sure.

He started closing the last drawer when he first heard the noise. It could have been a mouse or a rat, but it was more likely footsteps. Jake quickly ducked behind the metal cabinet and drew his pistol. He had to be careful, because Steve Nelsen was supposed to follow him there with the C-4.

In a moment a dark figure slid from the same direction he had come, probably the same hole. The person was too small for Nelsen. The movements were like that of a ballerina. Precise, quiet, and with perfect direction.

As a silhouette, Jake could see a gun in the person's right hand.

Now the figure was within arm's reach. Jake swung his foot up, knocking the gun from the hand and catching the person in the hip. Then he swept with his left foot and thrust with the butt of his gun at the person's chest, knocking the person to the ground. In a split second, he was on top of the body, his gun propped under a small chin.

The body struggled beneath him. Jake flicked the light on the person's face. For a moment Jake couldn't believe his eyes, and then the body seemed to settle down, as if it too understood something new. The hair was dark now instead of blonde.

“Helena,” Jake said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Her jaw tried to move away from Jake's gun. “Could you put that away,” she said softly. “It could go off.”

He moved his hand to her shoulder, keeping her down on the cold cement floor. “Well?”

“You're smart. What do you think?”

Jake wondered for a moment. The last time he had seen her, he had just put her on a train for Yalta and told her to stay put for her own safety. He remembered her sad eyes. How she had not wanted to go. And just prior to all that, he had killed the man who had killed Petra, her best friend. He had questioned how the men knew they were at the place. How they had been discovered. Had she given them up?

“You tell me? I thought I sent you to Yalta.”

She had an incredulous look across her beautiful face, as if she were playing her violin and a note she had never heard had escaped. “You don't understand, do you?”

That was an understatement. “Let me guess. You were working with Tvchenko.”

She smiled. “Close.”

“You were trying to get his formula for your government?”

“Better.”

Jake thought again. Helena had traveled extensively while a musician under the old Soviet government. Of course, she had worked for them all along. “Okay. Either the old KGB, or the GRU. I'm betting on the GRU, since that's who Tvchenko had worked for.”

“You are smart, Mr. Adams.”

“And you've come for Tvchenko's formula. But it's not here.”

“Are you sure?”

“About the formula?”

“About everything.”

“You mean about you setting us up in Odessa? Why did you have Petra killed?”

Her expression turned grave. “I loved Petra. It wasn't me. If it had been, I would have done it myself. But she was my best friend. I thought you set us up.”

“Me? Why?”

“It was too easy. You try to get what you want from her, when you find out she has nothing to tell, you have her killed. I hated you for it. My tears on the train were for you. Because I knew I would have to kill you, and I didn't like that one bit.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Jake pleaded. “I was doing the Agency a favor. I told them I'd help out. They were short handed. Why in the hell would I kill Petra?”

“Well I knew it wasn't Quinn Armstrong. They were lovers.”

“I thought so.”

“Can you let me up? This floor is cold.”

“You said you wanted to kill me.”

“Then. Later my contacts told me who had given up Petra.”

Jake put the light on her eyes. She tried to turn away. “Who?”

“I can't say.”

“Can't, or won't?”

“There are some things that must remain secrets, even though our governments are no longer real enemies.”

Jake couldn't argue with that. He didn't totally trust her, but wasn't certain what else to do. So he let her up. “Where do we go from here?”

She found her gun and put it back in its holster under her arm. “I have to have the formula. It was mine from the beginning. Tvchenko double crossed us. He was trying to set himself up for retirement. Working as many deals as possible.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“I thought you did.”

Jake shook his head. “I was an innocent bystander at the conference.”

Since the two of them had been talking, Steve Nelsen had no problem sneaking up on them.

“Who the hell is this,” Nelsen asked.

Helena startled and reached for her gun.

“I wouldn't,” Nelsen said, pointing his gun at her.

Jake gave Nelsen the quick version of who she was and what she was doing there. When he was done, Nelsen was shaking his head.

“This case is getting stranger by the minute,” Nelsen said. “Anyone else you haven't told me about, Jake?”

Jake was about to answer, when there was a rattling at the front door only twenty feet away. Jake cut his light. The three of them breathed quietly in the darkness for five minutes.

Finally, Jake said, “Must have been a watch checking the locks. I say we get the hell out of here and head to the mosque.” Jake's eyes had adjusted to the red light completely now, and he could see Helena's face. Nelsen was back in the shadows.

“You think Carzani has the formula?” she asked.

“It makes sense to me. You've got the most deadly nerve agent ever produced, you keep the formula close to home. Besides, I'm sure that's where they're keeping my friend, Sinclair Tucker.”

Helena's eyes seemed to grow, as if the sound of Tucker's name would kill anyone who heard it. “Who is that?” she finally asked.

“A friend. I'd like to get him the hell out of here.”

“Let me help,” she said.

Nelsen moved forward quickly. “Wait a minute. I'm not letting some broad with GRU come along for the ride.”

“What are you going to do, Steve. Kill her?”

Nelsen thought about that. “Maybe.”

Jake gave a slight laugh. “Let's go. We've got work to do.”

The mosque was a dark shape nestled against the side of the mountain. There was a dim light at the front gate and two more along a stone path that wound around to an outer entrance. That had bothered Jake all day as he watched the place through binoculars from high above. He had timed when people entered the front door to pray after the call to prayer from the minaret. Occasionally a suspicious few would divert around to the side. From satellite photographs, or even from a casual observer, the place appeared to be a simple village mosque. But it wasn't.

Jake had also timed how long each person stood watch at the front gate and at the side door. They were on for exactly four hours. He'd try to take advantage of that. It was half past midnight, a half hour away from watch change, and the guards might be tired.

Having just scaled the stone wall at its farthest point from the gate, Jake and Helena were sitting among a clump of bushes at the base of a huge oak, waiting for Steve Nelsen to make his move.

●

Nelsen had scaled the wall on the opposite side of the gate, and made his way to behind the guard posted on a bench under a tree covered by a canvas awning.

The ground was damp with dew, so he could walk quietly. He crept closer. He could see the man now, an old Makarov cradled across his lap. He was an old man. Nelsen thought about that for a moment. Should he kill him? Or simply take him out?

Nelsen ducked under the tent awning. He was only a few feet from the old man now, yet he still wasn't sure what he would do. He reached down swiftly with his right arm, pulled the man off the bench by his neck. The Makarov dropped to the ground. With his massive power, Nelsen lifted the man high in the air and twisted to throw him over his shoulder, when the neck snapped. The old man's body went limp and crumpled to the ground at Nelsen's feet. Damn it. Nelsen hurried from under the tent, which faced the gate, and searching the outer perimeter, he made his way toward Jake and Helena.

“First one's down,” Nelsen whispered.

Jake pointed toward the side door, and all three of them took off quietly.

In thirty seconds they were in place to take out the next guard. There was no good approach to this man without being spotted. So Jake would be a decoy drawing the man out, while Nelsen caught him from the side.

This guard was big, almost as large as Nelsen. And he had an M-16 with a standard 30-round magazine. He might not go quietly.

Jake came out of the bushes and strolled up the brick walkway. He hoped the man wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later.

When Jake was thirty yards away, the man startled and trained his gun on him. Jake thought of diving to the grass, but he held his ground. He knew a few Kurdish phrases. Maybe that would give him time. “I've come to pray to Allah.” Sure it was lame, but he had to try.