On Target (32 page)

It was already looking like this man was not worth the trouble.

“I don’t have any money.” It was a lie, but Court didn’t feel like blowing his stash of cash on this son of a bitch. “If you have information valuable to me, I’ll tell my superiors you were helpful.”

The stone-faced man pulled over and parked the car. It was pitch-black on all sides of the vehicle, and the headlights shone on the dust cloud created by the car’s tires. Mohammed looked into Court’s eyes. Court hoped he appeared as dark and threatening as this asshole. “That is not enough.”

“Then I guess we’re done. I’ll tell the FSB you changed your mind. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon enough.” Court made like he was going to get out, but he knew what was coming.

“Wait.”

Court settled back down in his cracked leather seat. His pistol dug into his right hip as he did so.

“There are new developments in Suakin.”

Court thought he was about to hear another spiel about danger to justify Mohammed’s desire for more money. He sighed, but the informant’s next comment got his attention.

“I thought Abboud would only arrive with his regular security detail. Twenty-five men or so. Normally when he comes, that is all. Yes, there are always more up at Port Sudan—they stay with his helicopter—but when he comes to Suakin, usually it is just the twenty-five guards.”

“So . . . what’s different this time?”

“The NSS arrived this afternoon.”

“The secret police are here?”

“Correct.”

“How many?” Court looked down to his hands. He picked at his fingernails.

“I saw five men.” Then the man in the shadows said, almost as an afterthought, “But there is a lot of military in town, also. You need to watch out for them.”

“What’s a lot?”

“A company, at least. Infantry.”

This made Gentry look up at the driver again. “Any idea why?”

“They say a group of rebels has been tracked to a farm outside of town.”

In an instant, Court knew the CIA operation had been compromised.

“Rebels?”

“Yes. SLA. It is strange. They have never operated this far to the east.”

“Any idea how many SLA?”

He waved an arm, his first gesticulation. “Not many. Just a dozen men or so.”

A dozen. Zack had initially promised one hundred, then cut that to thirty-five. Now Court’s most solid intel on the subject was that the real number was twelve. He didn’t blame Zack; surely if Sierra One knew his proxy fighters were such an impotent force, he wouldn’t have gone this far with the op. No, Court had seen this kind of deteriorating math before. He blamed the local CIA office, Sudan Station, for overpromising and underdelivering. There probably never were going to be a hundred SLA in Suakin; thirty-five was their best guess, and now it was clear that Sudan Station’s best guess sucked.

A dozen SLA, already compromised to the local authorities, weren’t going to fool anyone. If the attempt to kidnap the president went forward now, the army would roll up the pathetic little force of rebels in a matter of minutes.

Court could still assassinate the president for Greg Sidorenko, but kidnapping him for the CIA was out of the question without the rebel attack. It was obvious to Gentry now that Zack and his mission would be aborted.

“So I want more money to help you tomorrow.”

Court needed to talk to Zack before he even knew if there would
be
an op tomorrow. But he realized now he might just need Muhammed’s help in getting out of the area. If Nocturne Sapphire was dead in the dirt, then the CIA might want him to do Sid’s job and exfil as planned via FSB connections.

“I have two thousand euros.”

“I want ten.”

Court paused. It wasn’t his money, he couldn’t care less what this man was paid, but he’d been bargaining for one thing or another in the Third World for most of the past fifteen years, and he knew what he was doing.

He nodded. “Three now, three after.” Six grand was probably three times what this creepy bastard made in a year. Assuming the Russians had already agreed to pay him that much or more, this clown was making a serious chunk of change.

Mohammed looked at Gentry a long time. Finally he pulled the car back into the street and began driving. “Agreed.”

He and Court discussed arrangements for several minutes as the Mercedes inched around the town. Court tried to reconnoiter while they talked by looking out the grimy windows, but he could not make heads or tails of the confusing streets and dirt alleyways.

Finally Mohammed pulled over again. Court was surprised to find himself right where he’d been picked up a half hour before. The policeman said, “Tomorrow morning I will be at the agreed upon location at the agreed upon time. I will take you to a house in Khartoum where you can wait until it is safe to go to the airport.”

Gentry reached into his front pocket and pulled out a band-covered roll of euros. It was Sid’s money, of course; the CIA hadn’t given him any cash.

Court made it back to his overnight hide at eleven o’clock. He checked to make sure nothing in his packs had been disturbed, and he opened a tepid bottle of water and drank it down. Then he picked up the Hughes Thuraya and made a call.

Zack answered on the third ring. “Just getting some beauty sleep, Six; this better be good.” Hightower spoke sleepily.

“You need to abort Nocturne Sapphire. The rebels are compromised.”

When Hightower spoke again, he was wide awake. “Says who?”

“Says the FSB informant. He’s a local cop. A crew of NSS and a company of GOS infantry is in town because a dozen SLA were tracked here.”

“A dozen?”

“Roger that.”

“
One
dozen. One-two rebel fighters?”

“His intel seems solid.”

There was a long break. “Fucking Sudan Station.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Local CIA either exaggerated the shit out of the SLA’s ability to get men into the theater, or—”

“Or the SLA lied, fudged the numbers to get a pay-check from Uncle Sam. And then they go and get their bush-league asses compromised!”

“Fuckers.”

“Roger that.” Sierra One’s chuckle came out of Court’s phone. “Never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Sidorenko and his local contact.”

“Yeah, right? This could have been messy.”

“Let me call this in to Denny.”

“Tell him you need to abort.”

“Let’s see what he says.”

“Hit me back ASAP, One. I can still do the hit on Oryx; the opposition in the area won’t stop me from that.”

“Let’s see what Denny says,” Zack repeated.

Court’s overnight hide was, from an operational standpoint at least, a near perfect location to store his gear and lay up for the night. With both large rucks opened and the gear sorted and positioned for his fast access, he found a warm boulder large and flat enough for him to lie on. The gentle tickling of the lagoon’s waves against the shoreline rocks was peaceful and would help him rest when the time came.

He’d waited over an hour for the call back from Zack. It came after midnight, just as Gentry’s eyes shut and he nodded off to sleep.

He’d wired the satellite phone into his C4OPS system, so when the earpiece chirped in Court’s ear, he just pressed a button on the phone to send the call directly into the headset.

Gentry answered quickly. “Yeah?”

“Carmichael says go ahead.”

“With Sid’s hit on Abboud, right?”

“Negative. We stick with Nocturne Sapphire. Snatch Oryx and exfil over water.”

“How the hell can I snatch him with all the opposition in the—”

“Sudan Station doesn’t believe it. Thinks either it’s bullshit intel your source is feeding you, or bullshit intel you’re feeding us. And Carmichael is siding with the local station. We go ahead for now, discount this single source of yours, because local CIA says there are thirty-five SLA here, no reports of major NSS or GOS movements. The SLA say they will hit the square at oh six thirty-six tomorrow morning, no problems.”

“I’m not feeding anyone bullshit, Zack.”

“I know you’re not. Listen, Carmichael says I am cleared to make a game-time decision. I can knock it off at any point if it doesn’t look good tomorrow morning. He’s given me the go-ahead to be on site.”

“You’re going to be at the bank with me?”

“No, but we’ll be close by. He’s green-lighted Whiskey Sierra for direct action if the situation requires it.”

Court sucked in the moist air. “Seriously? You guys are going to shoot it out with the bodyguards and GOS troops? What happened to all that deniability bullshit? Why are you even using me in this if you have a green light to—”

“Court, Carmichael has his back to the wall. He’s made some promises that he has to keep by any means necessary. He’s promised the White House that we can hand Oryx over to the Euros. That means, basically, that we
have
to hand Oryx over to the Euros. The future of the Special Operations Group rests on this op.”

“The future of my
ass
rests on this op. You promised this would come down to a few of Abboud’s bodyguards against one hundred rebel forces. Now it’s the bodyguards, a company of GOS troops, and an NSS contingent of unknown size, all against a couple of pickups full of untrained dipshits who’ve already been compromised!”

“I told you, Sudan Station doesn’t think they’ve been compromised. And even if they have, Whiskey Sierra will be the force multiplier. We’ll get it done.”

“This plan needs an enema, Zack.”

“Kid, back in the day, how many of all the Goon Squad’s ops went to plan?”

Court thought. Shrugged. “Can’t think of a one, but—”

“Exactly. This plan is the best we got, and if it all goes south on us, we’ll come up with something else on the fly. Just like always.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I will make note of your dissent, and I will place it in the ‘who the fuck cares what Court thinks’ file.” Zack laughed at himself. “What did I tell you back in the day, Six? You don’t have to like it—”

“You just have to do it,” Court finished the thought. He was pissed, but he was a beaten man on this. He’d do his job, and Hightower knew it.

“You want to get back in the fold? You stick with your part of Nocturne Sapphire. You will make Carmichael a very happy and very appreciative man. Don’t worry, dude. Whiskey Sierra will be around to help you through.”

After a long pause Gentry muttered, “Six out.”

Court awoke and looked down at his watch. Tiny bits of tritium gas-filled tubes illuminated the hands, told him it was time to get up.

It was four thirty in the morning; the air was cool with the ocean’s breeze. He rolled into a sitting position and filled his lungs.

He’d slept fitfully for a couple of hours at most. The operation ahead had kept him tossing and turning, his mind spinning with details and contingencies and with a multitude of if/then statements that he could not seem to reconcile. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t imagine this day being anything other than a massive cluster fuck. He felt like a train wreck was coming, he was on the train, and it was too late to jump off.

From the pack Zack had handed off to him the night before he retrieved a peanut butter Soldier Fuel bar, a vitamin and protein-fortified energy bar created by nutritionists in the U.S. Army. He opened the package and ate it quickly and efficiently, his game face hardening by the minute as the day’s operation approached. He washed it down with water from his CamelBak bladder.

Gentry crab-walked down the boulders to the water’s edge. As he relieved himself into the lagoon, he considered changing clothes into something more tactical, but decided against it. He’d love to have pants with more pockets—pockets were important to an operator—but his grungy, grimy, local attire—clothes that he’d hiked in, swam in, slept in, even ridden on a donkey cart in—just looked too authentic to eschew for something clean and alien to the environment.