The Fourth War (2 page)

“Your horse,” she explained quickly.

Peter ignored her. She was wasting time now, trying to bait him, trying to loosen him up. “Is there anything else!” he demanded abruptly.

She paused, then looked sadly away. She had said everything, done everything she had been instructed to do. “The messages have been delivered,” she replied quietly. She looked at the ground, swallowing against her dry throat.
“Laoshih, Mei ou le,”
she concluded softly. “Teacher, there is nothing more.”

She slowly lifted her head and scanned the ring of darkness around them, fearful all the time for what she had been commanded to do. She thought again of her family. Did she really have to choose! Did she love them enough? Did she have the strength to save them, to do what her master had told her to do? She knew that she did and her heart sank in her chest.

A light wind began to blow, cooling her neck, and she rubbed her bare arms in an effort to warm them. Her skin almost shimmering in the light of the moon, and the soldier noticed the scar near the crest of her shoulder, the mark of her master, identifying this as his girl. Only the most favorite
Ji nu'
received the family name. The girl had nearly graduated from concubine to wife.

Zembeic studied her face. She was so beautiful. So lovely. Yet also lonely and sad. A feeling of deep sorrow began to pull at his chest. There was something about her. She looked so lost and alone. Why was she here, on the edge of the desert, at the tip of the mountains, walking the most barren land on earth? Why did she meet him? Why did he choose to send her?

She looked at him and waited, trying to smile. He nodded and grasped the porcelain cap in his hand. She watched him carefully then lowered her head. “Will you take me with you?” she muttered quietly, as if afraid he would hear.

He stopped and looked up, then immediately shook his head. “I can't. I have my mission.”

“Please,” she begged.

He shook his head vigorously, fighting the thought. She reached out to touch him, placing her hand on his arm. “Please take me with you. You don't understand.” For the moment she felt an overwhelming desire to live. She forgot about her family and the fate that would await them if she were to just disappear. She forgot about the small handgun that was strapped to her leg. The human instinct for survival was simply too strong to deny. “Please, American, please. Will you take me with you?”

The soldier turned away, unable to look at her any more. Everything within him wanted to take the girl by the hand, lift her up, and whisk her away. But he couldn't. He knew that. It wasn't in the operational plan. He couldn't bring her back, like a little boy rescuing a lost puppy. To leave her wasn't right, but he didn't have a choice. “I'm sorry,” he said simply. Turning, he picked up his gear and began to make his way up the trail.

The shantytown and muddy waterhole were off to his left. A ridge of low, rocky hills was on his right. He set his course by the moonlight, making for the ridgeline, where the outline of the trees could be seen against the night sky. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see. He pictured her face, knowing he would never forget.

After thirty paces he stopped and looked back. The trail was empty. He took a breath and moved toward the extraction point.

Twenty minutes later he was on the side of the ridge, at the military crest, one-third the way down the hill, hunkered under an outcropping of sandstone and brush. He had just completed making his call to Big Dog. The chopper, a Russian Hind the agency had liberated sometime in early '92, was on the way. From his vantage point on the side of the hill he could look down on the trail. He watched it intently, suffering inside.

He could take her. He
should
take her. She wanted to go. Screw the rules of engagement. What else could he do!? She was clearly in danger, he could see that in her eyes. She was frightened, in danger—and she was begging him. She could ride on the chopper. There was plenty of room!

He should take her. He would take her. He couldn't leave her behind. There were refugee camps in Turkey. He would help her get there.

He started to move, pulling himself out from the brush. In the distance, to the west, he began to hear the sound of helicopter rotors. The chopper was coming. He didn't have much time. He scrambled out from the brush and turned to make his way down the hill. Hunkering over, he moved with powerful strides.

The sound of the gunshot shattered the night. He dropped to his chest, falling behind a low brush as his hand moved instinctively for the 9 mm handgun that was strapped to his thigh. He took a deep breath as the hairs on his neck stood on end. He listened and watched while his heart beat in his chest.

The sound of the single gunshot echoed through the narrow canyon walls before receding into the emptiness of the desert to the east. Then there was silence, sudden and still. Even the sound of the chopper had fallen away as the Hind dropped behind the back side of the hill.

“Status!” the soldier demanded into the tiny microphone that was strapped to his neck.

“She's down,” his Afghani guide replied with little emotion. “Self-inflicted gunshot. I'm sorry, boss, there's nothing left of her head. We didn't have time to stop her. Negative hostiles in the AOR.”

The soldier closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Standing, he listened, then turned for the top of the hill. Reaching into his pocket, he felt the porcelain cap and a shudder ran down his spine as he wiped the sweat from his eyes.

He pressed his microphone switch again. “Bury the body.” He paused as he thought. “Give her some kind of prayer. And take care of my horse. I'll see you in a few weeks.”

Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv

Few people have ever heard of the Israeli counterintelligence agency known as Shin Bet, or their undercover detachments know as the
Mista'arvim
(marauders). And if few knew of the Shin Bet, fewer still knew of their brutal tactics or what they had done.

But those who worked with the agents or had suffered under their hands, having experienced the “special measures” the Israeli high courts had authorized, could testify the Israelis were as good at extracting information as any organization on earth. They were much better than the Egyptians, the proxy interrogators the CIA used, for the Egyptians were too slow and clumsy to rival Shin Bet. And over the years Shin Bet had only gotten better, more focused and intent. The war was too bloody. Too many people had died. They were caught up in the great battle that tested which nation had the strongest will to survive.

Since the war on terror had grown to a worldwide effort, the United States and Israel had been bound by multiple cords, all of them leading back to Islamist terrorist groups. And both intelligence agencies shared the same fear. The enemy hadn't been defeated, but had only slithered a little deeper into the dark. And the big one was coming. The black day was near.

 

Eleven hours after being extracted from the mountains of Central Asia, Peter Zembeic was asleep in the officers quarters of the Shin Bet auxiliary compound. He had been asleep for less than two hours when the intercom buzzed.

“Peter, you awake?” Even through the haze, Peter recognized the American colonel's voice.

The CIA agent rolled painfully onto his side. He was sore and exhausted, and he needed another fifteen hours of sleep. “Yeah, boss,” he slurred, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Come down to ops. We've got a problem with the chip.”

Peter stared at the wall, his mind suddenly clear and awake. He started to question, then swore to himself.

A problem with the chip!

He cursed angrily, then rolled off the bed.

 

Special Agent Peter Zembeic ambled wearily into the Shin Bet operations center. The room was dimly lit and lined with computers, telephones, fax machines, and secure data-transfer consoles. Along the front wall a huge plasma video screen was directly linked to the Shin Bet command center in Jerusalem. The room was deserted except for an Israeli escort and the American colonel, an air force liaison on temporary assignment to the CIA.

Col. Shane “Clipper” Bradley (he had once clipped his F-15 wings through some trees) sat, dressed in faded jeans, a blue shirt, and leather hiking boots at a small computer console. He hadn't worn a uniform since stepping off the government jet and onto the tarmac at the airport in Jerusalem, for the U.S. military officers working inside Israel
never
identified themselves. Might was well paint a red target on their foreheads and wander down to the nearest bus station and wait for the next suicide bomber, as be walking around the besieged country in air force blues. Further, the last place in the world either side wanted to see a U.S. military uniform was inside a compound run by Shin Bet. Such was a risk neither side would endure.

Colonel Bradley glanced up as Peter walked into the room. Zembeic had cleaned up, having spent thirty minutes in the shower before dropping into bed, and his skin was still pink from being scrubbed raw. His long hair and bushy beard smelled of shampoo and soap. He wore faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and black cowboys boots. The colonel smiled lightly. Peter was one of the few men he knew who dared wear faux black rhino boots. He eyed his good friend. “You feel better?” he asked.

Peter sniffed and wiped his nose. He didn't. Not much.

Bradley watched intently as the long-haired agent poured a cup of steaming, bitter coffee, an Israeli home brew. He looked like a hood, the kind of guy you expect to find hustling pool at some sleazy bar in El Paso, a small-town thug who did time for drunk-and-disorderlies and stealing old cars. But Bradley knew him better, he knew the truth. Peter was one of the best men he had ever met. Hard and intelligent, dedicated and strong, Peter wasn't the kind who waffled in the babble of relative good; he saw things as they were, not as some wished they would be. How many times had Peter lectured him.
“This thing is black and white, baby!”
Bradley could almost hear his voice.
“Screw everything else. Don't dribble psychoanalysis on why we deserve any of this! Just give me a mission and get out of my way! We're the good guys in this war, and don't you ever forget!”

Peter sucked in a mouthful of coffee, bowed his head, and closed his eyes, savoring the bitterness before swallowing it down. Acidic and sour, it matched his mood. His stomach muscles were sore from heaving his guts the night before. He had caught something new in the water of Afghanistan and was paying the price, and he envisioned the parasites that were now growing in his bowels.

The colonel nodded to his escort. The Israeli frowned, then stood and walked reluctantly through a back door, leaving the two U.S. agents by themselves. The colonel looked around, wondering if the room was still bugged, then nodded toward the nearest computer display. “Take a look,” he said.

Peter Zembeic turned to the screen and frowned.

The letters repeated and filled the entire silver screen.

Peter stared, then huffed. “So—?” he asked wearily.

Colonel Bradley stared down at him. At six-two, he towered over the squat man's head. Peter looked up and frowned. “You're the boy genius,” he said. “Tell me, what does it mean?”

Bradley didn't answer. Handsome, solid, dark-haired and dark-eyed, he
was
young, it was true. Peter used to call him
Dyphemus,
Greek for “new star,” until he realized how sensitive Bradley was to the perception that he was too young for his rank. Bradley had fought the impression of inexperience most of his professional career.

And the truth was, Bradley had been promoted so often and so early he outranked men who were almost twice his age. In the military, ugly was fine, soldiers didn't get points for good looks; indeed, mud, snot, and gunpowder had a way of making all men look like swill. But the colonel was handsome. And young. A terrible career combination.

Envy didn't die when his fellow officers had taken their oath of office, Bradley had learned. “Pretty boy,” his detractors had said. But they didn't any longer. And even if they did, they were so far behind him he could no longer hear their sneers. For almost fifteen years Bradley had walked the walk, a beautiful amble through the pitches and pines of political and real war, until he had worked himself into a position where he didn't need to take crap from anyone anymore. Everyone knew his record, and it said it all.

Bradley smiled at the boy genius remark, then sat down and crossed one leg on his knee, then nodded again to the screen. Peter followed his eyes and stared at the code. “The chip was imbedded with several internal security logarithms. We've worked through them all and that's all there is.”

Peter hated puzzles. He preferred sweat and muscles, head banging and blood. He stared at the screen of random letters. “That's it?” he said angrily.

“Yep. That's it. We just hit a wall.”

Peter swore and stood up. “Don't tell me I lived like a rat in the desert for six miserable weeks to recover a
useless
computer chip!” he sneered. He glared at the letters. “What is it?” He jabbed a thick finger at the screen. “DAR—KDAR!! What does it mean!”

“I don't know,” Bradley replied.

“You think the chip might be damaged?”

“No, Peter. We got everything. That's all that is there.”

Peter thought of the porcelain cap the young girl had given to him. He frowned again at the screen, its silver light casting a pale glow in the dimly lit room. “I don't believe it,” he said. “There's
got
to be something more there!”

“Believe it, Peter. There's nothing on the chip but what you see on that screen.”

The agent turned a cold eye on his friend. “Did he set me up!? Is that what he was doing!? Testing the chain to see if we would still jump when he said to!”

Bradley shook his head slowly. “Might be…probably so. It's really hard to say.”

“What do you think, Shane? You know Donner better than anyone. Was he screwing with us!”

Bradley hesitated, then answered, “Could be he wanted to test our operations to see if we were still secure. It isn't an unusual procedure, to send a meaningless message to test the security and operational capability of the code before the real message is sent.”

“Don't tell me I sat in the desert for weeks to recover a worthless piece of silicon! Do you know what biscuits taste like when they're cooked over camel dung? Do you know how cold it gets in those mountains at night? So, don't tell me I hit the rendezvous for nothing!”

Bradley didn't answer and Peter shook his head. “Sloppy work, Shane. I say we tell Donner to FedEx his message next time.”

Bradley hesitated as he thought. “Tell me about the girl,” he said as he rubbed his neck.

Peter looked away. He did not want to think of her. “Young, Eurasian,” he finally answered. “Scared. She had the mark of her man.”

“Could she have been one of his runners?”

“She wasn't a professional, I promise you that. She was scared as a rabbit, trembling inside and out.” Peter paused and closed his eyes. “Have you watched the tape of the rendezvous?” he asked.

“Yes, I've seen it.”

“You know then that she asked me to bring her out.”

“I know.” Bradley stared unflinchingly at his friend. “You did the only thing you could do,” he forced himself to say.

Peter sipped bitterly at his coffee. He knew all that, of course, but it didn't help. Bring her out? Yeah, maybe; but how many others would then die? And it would have revealed their source, leaving Donner exposed. It was too high a price, one they simply could not pay.

He swallowed more coffee and shivered. What a lousy business this was. He wanted to shower again, to feel the warm water running down the small of his back, to feel it fall on him, washing away all the evil he'd done.

This was a business for a hard man, a man who was cold and ruthless. So why did he stay? Because he
was not
that man. There was no irony in that answer, it was as simple as that. If he left, maybe the next guy would be worse than him, more ruthless, more deadly, more unfeeling, more cold, his conscience even more deadened than Peter's had become.

Peter crossed his legs uncomfortably as his stomach rumbled again, the parasites settling in for a long winter's feast. “You gottta love this guy, Donner,” he said miserably. “A real class act. Sending one of his women, then forcing her to kill herself.”

Bradley's face flushed as he thought again of the video of the girl, and he silently added her face to the nightmares he would have in the long nights ahead. He shook his head sadly, then pushed himself up from the chair. He thought a long moment, staring at the computer screen. “Come on, Donner!” he pleaded across the thousand miles that separated them from their prize intelligence mole.
“Dark,”
he mumbled slowly. “What do you mean!?
Dark! Dark what!!
What are you trying to say!?”

Peter looked up suddenly, his face growing pale. He felt his heart sink, a cold rock of fear in his chest. “Dark!” he mumbled suddenly, his voice raspy and weak. He turned to the screen. Of course! How could he be so stupid!!

An image flashed in his mind, hot and searing, as if it were etched in blue light. He pictured the girl leaning toward him. He remembered the feel of her lips on his ear and the intense look in her eyes.

“She is beautiful,”
she had muttered.
“Your horse,”
she'd explained.

Her words now seemed to stick like dry sand in his throat. His hands began to tremble as he saw two plus two.

Your horse…dark…horse. DARKHORSE! His mind cried.

He sat back suddenly, his coffee sloshing hot in his lap.
“Darkhorse!”
he muttered, his voice a tremble of pain.

Colonel Bradley stared steadily at him, but a pale gray was sweeping his face. “Darkhorse!” he answered as he stared at his friend.

“Show me the tape!” Peter cried as he pushed himself away from his chair. Bradley stared at him blankly, not understanding. “The tape of the rendezvous!” Peter exclaimed.

Bradley pointed to a nearby bank of computers. Peter reached for the nearest one, then held back, unsure of what to do. Bradley moved to his side, pushing him out of the way. Dropping a finger on the touchpad, he loaded the file. It only took seconds before Peter's image filled the seventeen-inch computer display. The low-light camera showed mostly green and dark hues, but the image was clear and tight; Peter's shoulders and the side of his face, the young girl before him, small, petite, wide-eyed, and beautiful. Peter sucked in his breath at the sight of her face. Bradley turned up the volume and a raspy hiss emitted from the screen; the sounds of the night, a horse's snort, a breeze through dry leaves, light footsteps from somewhere behind the camera. Then the sounds of the two whispered voices picked up by the microphone hidden under Peter's lapel.

“Do you have it?” Peter asked in nearly perfect Persian.

Peter watched the tape a moment, then reached down to fast-forward the digital file. He skipped ahead, then rolled back, then clicked the play button again.