Sniper Elite (10 page)

“Hold on a second,” Chou said. “Isn't this the same nut responsible for the Badakhshan massacre?” He was referring to the massacre of ten foreign aid workers from the International Assistance Mission that had occurred in August 2010.

“Nobody knows for sure who ordered that attack,” Silverwood said, “but if it wasn't the Gulbuddin faction, it was probably the Khalis faction—another Hezb-e Islami group that split off from HIG clear
back in 1979—and it's the goddamn Khalis faction that brings us here today! Not only has Aasif Kohistani recently become the leader of the Hezb-e Islami Khalis party—we call them the HIK—but they're based out of Nangarhar Province where Sandra was taken.”

Chou sat back, taking a drink from his coffee. He put the cup down on the table and immediately added more sugar. “I know there's more,” he said with a smile, “so I'm going sit patiently waiting to hear.”

Silverwood took a sip of his own. “Do you know how many parliamentary seats that the HIG and HIK parties hold between them as of this year?”

“First, tell me how many seats there are total, or the number isn't going to impress me.”

Silverwood laughed. “They hold fifty out of two hundred and forty-six seats.”

“Okay, that's impressive.”

“So,” Silverwood said, leaning into the table and lowering his voice, “suppose—just for the sake of conversation—that good President Karzai knows the HIK took Sandra. How likely is it that he'll go against them holding that damn many seats in parliament?”

“That would be a big risk,” Chou agreed. “I'm sure he'd prefer to sit back and watch us work it out ourselves.”

“Or to be on the safe side?”

Chou conceded the point. “Or to be on the safe side, he could offer to act as intermediary for the ransom exchange—which is exactly what the hell he's done. Okay, that much is clear, but there's a flaw in your theory.”

Silverwood sat back again. “Which is?”

“I know there's already been a positive ident on one of the bodies at the scene of Sandra's abduction. She was taken by
Taliban
forces—we know that much for sure—and you just said the Taliban doesn't get along with the HIK.”

“They didn't when they were strong,” Silverwood said. “Now the HIK is a lot stronger than the Taliban, so teaming up with them is a good idea, considering their growing political power.”

“You know this is still all circumstantial,” Chou said, unconvinced there was a connection.

“It is, but only until you consider the fact that one of those dead Taliban fighters found at the scene of the abduction is an exact DNA match with the Kalasha people who live in the Waigal Valley . . . more specifically the highly inaccessible mountain redoubt village of Waigal. By the way, I haven't shared these DNA results with the State Department yet.”

Chou pushed his coffee cup aside to rest his elbows on the table. “Is there a direct link to the HIK, or are you shooting in the dark on this?”

Silverwood allowed his imminent victory to show on his face. “Kohistani was
born
in the Waigal Valley, Ray. He's not Kalasha, but he speaks their language and has family ties through marriage. And in case you're still not convinced, we're ninety percent certain the ISI guy we arrested yesterday has been feeding intel to Kohistani and the HIK since he started working with us in Jalalabad three months ago.”

“Say you've convinced me. What's the punch line?”

Silverwood shrugged. “You've got the same information I've got now. Follow the intel stream to its logical conclusion.”

Chou took a moment to consider everything he'd just been told. “Oh, crap. You think State already knows the HIK has Sandra . . . maybe even where she's being held?”

“Well, if they don't already have
some
idea,” Silverwood said with a smirk, “they're pretty fucking stupid, I'll give you that.”

“But that doesn't make much sense,” Chou said. “SOG hasn't even been put on alert. No one's even drawing up a contingency yet.”

“Which must mean DC's decided to pay the ransom. Because
unless my entire theory here is bogus, I don't see any other explanation for the lack of military movement.”

“Good then!” Chou said. “Problem solved. The woman's been through enough. Pay the fucking money and get her out of there. I'm all for it. Twenty-five million's a lot, but State spends a hell of a lot more on a hell of a lot less every day. It's not like they have to acknowledge the terms of her release.”

“I agree,” Silverwood said, “but doesn't the ransom demand itself concern you? It does me.”

Chou sat looking at him. “Why should it? Afghanistan is full of kidnappers. Hell, it's their leading industry.”

“Come on, Ray. If Kohistani and the HIK really do have Sandra, why would they give her up for something as trivial as money when she could so easily be used to drive a wedge between Karzai and the United States?”

“You mean by
forcing
him to choose sides?”

“Right.”

“Well, that's an awfully big risk. Wouldn't Karzai have to choose the US?”

“I'm not so sure,” Silverwood said. “Think about it. Not only does Karzai want us the hell out of his country, he wants us out before we jeopardize the alliances he's struck over the last twelve months. If we're leaving, he sure as hell can't afford to galvanize fifty parliamentary seats against him over the likes of an American woman. Throughout history, Afghanistan's been governed through alliances. It's never going to be any different, and Karzai knows this as well as anybody . . . better than most, in fact.”

“So you think the ransom's a ruse,” Chou said. “An attempt to steal twenty-five million without giving Sandra back. Or maybe an attempt to make Karzai look stupid?”

Silverwood shook his head. “I don't have any idea. I just know I don't trust the nature of the demand. That's why I want you to pass
this information along to your friends in DEVGRU. If you'll agree to do that, then I can leave this godforsaken country tonight with a clear conscience.”

Chou was startled. “You're leaving tonight. Has your wife taken a turn for the worse?”

“She's stopping the chemo.” Silverwood gazed at his coffee cup. “She tells me the doctors say less than a month.”

“I'm awfully sorry, Brent. I wish there was something more I could say.”

Silverwood looked up again. “There's plenty you can say, Ray. Only say it to DEVGRU because I got a really bad feeling about this ransom deal. I'm telling you.”

It was dark by the time Gil landed in Kandahar, and Crosswhite's friend Joe met him at the foot of the ramp of the C-130, not far from the 727 that sat waiting in the dark for Gil to load with his gear. Joe was a civilian contractor with Army Intelligence, over six feet tall with sandy blond hair and a hatchet face. He appeared edgy, looking all around and back over his shoulder, as though he was worried someone might be watching him from the shadows among the other military aircraft.

“You're Joe?” Gil said easily, trying to put the younger man at ease.

“Yeah, look,” said Joe. “You never heard of me, okay?”

Gil smiled. “I'm not even here. How's that sound?”

Joe smiled back and pulled from his pocket what appeared to be nothing more than a common iPhone. “Okay, this is the smart phone prototype we've been working on. We're field-testing them with the Deltas right now, so there's only a dozen of them in existence. As far as anyone knows, this unit is malfunctioning and out of service until you bring it back—in one piece.”

Gil chuckled. “Roger that.”

Joe stood beside him so he could show him the display, working the apps with his thumb. “This damn thing is smarter than God, dude. Once we get the bugs worked out of it, all you special ops guys will be using them. It works just like all the others you use, but this fucker will do it
all
, dude—GPS, biometrics, encrypted text messaging, mortar ballistics—you name it. No more kit bags with PDAs for every different fucking device. See what I mean?”

Gil nodded enthusiastically, accepting the phone and running deftly through the different apps. Except for a few variations and all the extra options, it worked exactly like the other PDAs he had carried, only this unit seemed a bit more user friendly, and the GPS even featured an interface with the military version of Google Earth. Within fifty seconds he had triangulated his exact position on the tarmac to within three feet, and the screen was overlaid with a recent satellite image of where he was standing, allowing him to zoom in and out.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, glancing at the taller man.

Joe's face split into a wide grin. “Pretty fucking badass, right?”

“And this covers, say . . . Iran, as well?”

Joe's eyebrows soared. “Assuming anyone was crazy enough to cross over the border? Yeah, they'd be good to go. And, dude, this ain't shit,” he continued enthusiastically. “Within the year, you'll be able to use this fucker to tap into a live feed of the surrounding terrain—provided there's a satellite or a drone overhead—and
zoom right in on your fucking enemy without having to expose yourself. No more fucking around with those little toy drones you guys are tossing into the air. This is the fucking future of combat tech, dude.”

“Suppose it falls into enemy hands?” Gil needed to know. “Can it be traced back to us?”

Joe shook his head. “Dude, the parts are all made in China.”

“Okay, suppose they try hacking into it?”

“No sweat. There's a couple different countermeasures. We can fry it from the command center right here in Kandahar—or you can set it up to do that automatically.” Joe took a small black, shock-dampening nylon case from the canvas musette bag over his shoulder. “This is the case for it—it attaches to your molly gear. There's a chip inside it—like in a car key. You can set the phone to check in with the case however often you want it to—from up to a distance of a hundred feet. So let's say you set it to check in every three minutes, and then the phone falls out of the case while you're on the run. In three minutes, the phone will try to check in with the chip inside the case to be sure it's still with you. If it doesn't get the signal it's looking for, it checks again in three more minutes. If it still doesn't get the signal, it waits another three minutes, then fries itself. The second countermeasure is simple: after the enemy enters the wrong access code three times—”

“It fries itself.”

“You got it,” Joe said. “The access code for this unit is three-two-one-star. You don't want a complicated code in combat. After five minutes of nonuse, you have to reenter the code. Easy peasy.”

“Can I fry it myself if I need to?”

Joe looked at him. “Dude, I just told you. Enter the wrong access code three times.”

Gill chuckled. “Okay,
dude
. I got it . . . and you'll be here in the command center until when?”

Joe shrugged. “Until Crosswhite calls and tells me your mission is complete. I'm your overwatch, dude—
unofficially
.”

Gil stuck the smart phone inside the case and zipped it closed. “What happened in Dallas?”

Joe shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Crosswhite kept me out of jail. That's all I'm gonna say.”

“Can you track my location with this thing?”

Joe shook his head. “That app's still fucked up. It's one of the software integration problems.”

Gil offered his hand. “Do me a solid and keep awake tonight, will ya?”

“Roger that.” Joe took his hand. “Crosswhite said to remind you to tuck and roll—whatever the fuck that means.”

“Wilco,” Gil said.

GIL BOARDED THE
727 with all of his gear a short time later and sat down in the cramped rear compartment to wait for Melisa. Normally, the 727 did not have a rear compartment, but the CIA had customized the cabin to accommodate the parameters of the mission. The fabrication work was first rate and did not appear jerry-rigged in the slightest. In fact, Gil would never have guessed it wasn't an original feature to the aircraft.

Melisa came up the stairs a few minutes later dressed in the two-tone blue uniform of a Turkish Air flight attendant. She hit the button to raise the hydraulic stairs, and then sat down in the jump seat directly across from him, appearing slightly tense.

“You don't look at all nervous,” she remarked.

Gil smiled. “Fear accompanies only the possibility of death. Calm ushers its certainty.”

She couldn't help the tiny grin that came to her face. “In other words, you're very good at hiding it.”

He laughed. “I'm jumping out the ass-end of a jet . . . in the dark . . . over Iran. Of course I'm hiding it.”

She nodded, returning to business. “In five minutes, we will taxi to the concourse to take on passengers. I will help the other attendant to get everyone settled and then rejoin you back here.”

“Is the other attendant with MIT as well?”

“The entire crew is MIT.”

Gil had suspected as much, but during the rush to prep, that detail never came out. He had worked with foreign intelligence agencies before, but never with MIT. He had heard different reports about them, some good, some not so good.

“Who's vetting the passenger list?”

“We are,” she said. “Is that okay? Mr. Lerher didn't have the resources in place.”

“It's probably better that way,” he said, not necessarily believing it, but what the hell, it hardly mattered now.

“Anyone suspicious,” she went on, “or anyone matching a name on our list will be . . .
delayed
and forced to take the next flight.”